


Name One Hero Who Was Happy

by JaneBeyre



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Cure for the Blight, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Grey Wardens, Heroes, Intrigue, Mages and Templars, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rite of Tranquility, Romance, The Fade, great game, grey characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 69
Words: 78,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneBeyre/pseuds/JaneBeyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neria Surana believed her story long finished, her old deeds dwindling as she retreated from her former life and into solitude. But fate is not done with the Hero of Ferelden and a decade after the fifth blight's defeat she is faced with a difficult choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Changed

**Part I: The Witch**

_"What he didn't like about heroes was that they were suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk."_

_(Terry Prachett, The Colour of Magic)_

* * *

 

Everything had changed at Wintersend. As hearths had blazed to ward off the old year's cold, as children sang to keep away the longest night, as men and women drank and cheered and saluted the end of winter's reign, she'd been on her knees, wretched and sobbing. Intricate webs of deceit had finally entangled the weaver. The game was lost and her bruised heart smashed on the cold, chequered floor of her entrance hall.

It had been a day much like this day and the days that followed. And as winter's fingers extended over the now barren land and light gave way to longer nights, _that_ day pressed close in her thoughts. 

When the great fall...they fall far. Six summers had fled before her wandering feet but still when the snowflakes danced and dead branches grew heavy with frost she could not help but dwell on all she'd left.

Where once there had been laughter, banquets, wine, where once she had celebration and arguments and sweet talks into the night, where once she'd had _peace_...now she had ghosts..memories...vague wanderings in a cold camp.  

At first they sent men after her. Could trace her, after all, with sanctioned blood magic. She easily eluded the King's hunters, he sent them in battalions and she was but one, slight elf. She slipped into shadow and covered her tracks. The spies her friends sent were harder to avoid. She regretted their deaths but she would not be dragged back.

After a while the soldiers and spies ceased their hunt, but her camp was still cold for she had new enemies.

And for six years she endured. For six years she spoke only with creatures of the fade. She learnt secrets long kept and rarely spoken. She learnt lies long told as truths and truths too improbable to tell. And with this knowledge she forged a lonely path.

Until one day she awoke to find the sky above torn open. And as she gazed at the strange light she felt something shift within and her pride shattered upon the rocks of her desolate campsite.

And everything changed again.


	2. Two Roads

**PART I: The Witch**

_Two Roads_

* * *

 

For two months she tried to ignore it. Every morning she stood at a crossroads. One winding murky path into the mountains, back to her old life and the other, the old familiar road of duty. And for two months, every morning, she chose the old road following the whispers of spirits.

Then, one evening, she saw a fire upon the heath and felt a familiar stabbing, yearning for company, a drink, another human form to look upon. With her pride in tatters she stumbled forwards, hands up in the universal gesture of peace.

One of the soldiers went for his pike and for a second it glinted as a threat between them. Another solider approached, lowered the man's ash shaft. She swallowed as the fire crackled.

"I would...share your camp," she said, suddenly realising she must've been an alarming sight, coming off the heath in ancient elven armour, half-feral, muck-stained and gaunt.

"By all means, serrah," the solider gestured. "Forgive our alarm, these are difficult times."

She took off her gauntlets and stood over the fire, warming her hands. When they offered her ale she drank deep, despite her long abstinence and the bitter taste. After a while she spoke, unable to bear their curious looks any longer. "I do not recognise your heraldry," she glanced to the flags fluttering around the campsite. "For whom do you fight?"

They looked to one another, nervous glances under their half helms. "You...don't know?"

A surge of irritation, born from her six year snub of all things mannered. "I...have been away for some time."

"We're of the Inquisition, Serrah."

She had _indeed_ been away a long time. Circle history had taught her of the Inquisition of old, their purge of all culture they saw as a threat to their faith. The name made her shudder.

"You have not heard of us?" the solider asked tentatively. His eyes, lit up by the fire, wandered to the  hilt of the longsword poking above her shoulder. "The Commander's always looking for willing recruits, 'specially those that can handle themselves."

"Why should I join?" she asked, recovering some of her former wit. "What has the Inquisition done that is so grand?"

"We have the Herald of Andraste at our side...he drove the Tevinters from Redcliffe and forced the rebel mages to submit to his will."

Her eyebrows shot upwards. There was no covering her surprise. _The Herald of Andraste? Tevinters in Redcliffe. Rebel mages?_  

She asked them questions all night and they delighted in weaving her the tale. And in the morning, when she stared up at what the soldiers called the breach, and she asked herself which road she should tread, she realised both paths pointed towards the same place. Haven.


	3. Ambush

**PART I: The Witch**

_Ambush_

* * *

 

They ambushed her out of nowhere. Came from the thicket of pine and snow like shadows. They circled her, and for the second time that week she put her hands in the air.

"Peace," she said to the leader of the three. "I mean you no harm, I seek the Inquisition..."

"You come a strange road," the man sheathed his own longsword but did not give the order for his men to follow suit. Keen blue eyes took her in, and his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Why not take the main road, knife ear?"

 _Ah, so that's how this is._ "I did not wish to be seen..."

"Suspicious, do you not agree?" he turned to his men and for an instant she thought to put her dagger through the jugular he exposed between helm and breastplate. For six years such instincts had kept her alive. She clenched and unclenched her fist.

"I would speak to whomever leads you," she cursed her faltering voice. "I have need of your Inquisition."

He squinted at her, muttered something underneath his moustache and gestured for his men to lower their blades."Standard procedure," he threaded his thumbs through his belt loops, face contorted like she was a particularly bad smell. "You relinquish all you weapons to me and I'll take you up the mountain."

"All of them?" she sighed.

"Aye," he grunted. "You've a problem with that you can skip off from whence you came."

Ten years ago she couldn't move without being recognised. _Hero is such a treacherous title._  

It took several minutes for her to be sure she was completely unarmed. Her old habit of hoarding weapons had surfaced again on the road. Knives, daggers, two bastard swords, countless stilettos, broken hilts, an ancient arrowhead, all of these she piled into the uncertain recruit's arms.

"Maker's balls," she heard him mutter to his comrade as she stalked after their leader. "Who's she to have all these bloody weapons?"


	4. The Long Wait

**PART I: The Witch**

_The Long Wait_

* * *

 

Haven was unrecognisable. As the trees thinned the clatter of men at arms rebounded off the high wooden gates. She stopped for a second, frowning at the distant flashes of silver and green, at the tents lined in uniform rows. It stirred memories from waters long flowed under the bridge. Other battlefields, other recruits, other leaders.

The soldiers nudged her onwards, into the encampment.

It was as well organised a site as could be hammered out here on the treacherous snow. Whoever commanded was doing a fine job. They passed all colours and creeds; dwarves, men, elves, Orlesian, Ferelden, it seemed not to matter to the Inquisition. It stank, as all large gathering of men at arms did, of latrines, old sweat and horse. She didn't mind though, it was...familiar.  

Once or twice men nudged each other as she passed and she turned her face away from them, fingers itching to pull up her hood. A futile gesture. She would be known soon enough.

Once they were inside the gates she began to feel the prickle of confinement. Instinct reached for the hilt of her longsword and found only air. It was odd, to hear so much conversation, to hear life going on almost the same as she'd left it. Snow was still swept from steps, bread still scented the air, people still clambered for a bargain at the only stall. Nothing had ended with her long retreat. It made her think of Denerim...what she had left behind...what she had thrown away.

"Wait here," the solider waved a gloved hand in the vague direction of a fire. "I'll get someone to see you shortly."

"Be careful with them," she nodded at the solider struggling to carry an armful of her weapons as he stumbled by. He looked about to sneer something rude but his friend pulled him away.

She was left alone with her thoughts. And Haven was riddled with them.  

She had been too young the first time she'd come here, full of hope, a naive mage fresh out of the circle. If dealt the same hand would she play a different game? Save herself and others years of torment and sorrow...perhaps.

But then again, probably not.

It had been good during the Blight. And that said a lot about the years since, didn't it? That the fondest recollections of her youth were running around the blighted countryside, darkspawn at her heels, the whole Kingdom wanting her head for a treason she didn't commit. _That_ was better than the four years rubbing elbows with the nobility, wanting for nothing but the one thing she couldn't have. That was better than the six years of utter solitude that followed.

She sighed, kicked the tip of her steel shod boot into the ground. There was little point dwelling but what else could she do? Everyone behind the walls seemed to be scurrying to some purpose. She wished  to be done here soon.

As dusk settled over the mountain valley a chill  drove her to the nearest fire. The elven lass who'd lit it eyed her warily but said nothing. She took this for acceptance and laid her blanket upon the snow and slowly took off her greaves. She waited.

And waited.

She was stiff and frozen in her armour, spine crunched into a slouch, hands wrapped around her knees, head resting on them, tired and aching and thinking she should find her weapons and leave, when the full moon's light, mingling with the eerie glow of the fade, was blocked out by a shadow.

"Neria," a whisper, half in disbelief.

The surprise of hearing that voice, here of all places, jolted her eyes to the silhouette standing over her.

For a long time the two women said nothing, the years stretching between them a silent chasm. Neria's tongue was fat and useless, thick with excuses that she could not bring herself to speak.

"Come with me," Leliana muttered eventually, and like a hang dog Neria stood, and followed.


	5. The Cold Sister

**Part I: The Witch**

_The Cold Sister_

* * *

 

Years of road dirt and sweat and toil stained the marble bath black. She wondered at the last time she'd been so clean, no muck under her nails, hair that smelled of roses not smoke, her beaten armour discarded for the comfort of a clean robe. She'd forgotten what it was like to be truly warm, felt like a block of ice, thawing slowly in the heat.

Leliana watched her shovel stew into her mouth with none of the airs and graces the Orelesian had taught her so many moons ago. Neria didn't need to look to feel the cold, disapproving stare as she picked up the bowl and quaffed like a drunkard.

She licked the remnants from around her lips in an uncomfortable silence. She risked a glanced at her one time friend but quickly looked away. Leliana appeared much the same as she had when they'd first met; no laughter lines, no grey flecks among her perfectly straight hair, no new scars to speak of. Something however, was definitely changed with the bard. Once she could not have stood such a silence, would have found some distraction from the tension. Now she seemed indifferent, long pale fingers coiled under her chin, generous mouth tight, blue, blue eye as cold as a winter's dawn fixed and focussed on Neria.

She resisted the urge to shiver and instead sprawled in her armchair, taking in the ante-chamber where they sat in stony silence, looking for something to discuss.

"Well this place is certainly-"

 "Don't," Leliana said, softly. One syllable but so much threat.

"Don't what?"

"Make small talk as though ten years haven't trudged by," Leliana's cool demeanour broke, her eyebrows drawing together as though to protect herself from a difficult thought. "Why are you here, Neria?"

She opened her mouth to argue and snapped it shut like a trap. Hadn't it been the bard herself that had taught her to think before she spoke? But damn it had been so long since her tongue had twisted around courtesies. She sighed, picking at a loose thread on her robe.

"I...wanted to help," she muttered lamely, trying not to let the falsehood seep into her stance. "I met with Inquisition scouts on the road, they told me...everything ... Kirkwall...Anders...the mages and templars and now this...breach."

"Why now?" Leliana leaned forward, a snarl tainting her perfect lips, rage blinding her to Neria's lie. "For years we sent men to find you, good men, some never returned."

"I..."

"I do not want to hear excuses, Warden," Leliana snapped across her. "Men died whilst you wandered Thedas gazing at your navel, men and women you could have saved."

Anger, hot and sudden, clawed up her throat. She bit her tongue hard enough to draw a little blood. _No matter how much they take they always want more._

"If you'd have been at the Conclave," Leliana's voice cracked a little and Neria snapped her head to meet the bard's steely stare, "if you'd have been in Kirkwall...you could have ended this before it even began."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" she hissed, unable to keep a lid on the boiling rage any longer.

"Too little," Leliana's chair scrapped against the floor as she stood, "too late."

"Bollocks to it then," Neria threw her own chair back in disgust,  tired of wrapping her language in patience. "I'll piss off, shall I?"

"Why not?" Leliana shot back. "It's what you're good at."

"Oh that's utter crap and you know it," Neria growled, slammed her palm on the desk. "I served my time for Ferelden. I stayed when others fled. You, of all people..." she shook her head, realising this hurt her more than it should. She hadn't needed anyone for six years, she didn't need anyone now. "I don't have to deal with this."

She turned on her heel, ready to leave this path once and for all. There would be other ways, other paths, other friends.

She had the doorknob in her hand, Leliana's stare prickling her neck, when a soft knocking came from the other side and with only that warning, the door flung open in her face. She danced backwards.

"I've got those..." he began before looking up from his paperwork . Painfully familiar eyes found hers and widened. "Troop...reports," he finished, still staring at her like he'd seen a ghost. "Maker's breath...."

He'd changed. More than Leliana at least. Dark circles round his eyes spoke of his burdens but his shoulders were thrown back in an easy confidence, or perhaps it was simply that they were no longer under the heavy weight of Order armour. She was close enough to see his throat work down a swallow, a new scar, faint across his lip, hear the slight creak of his greave as his free hand clasped the hilt of a greatsword protruding from his hip. And then she realised she was staring and that she hadn't seen anything that looked as good as him in _six_ _years,_ and a flush crept up her neck at the thought, and then all off that came crashing around her pink-tinged ears as she remembered she was supposed to be storming out of here.

"Neria," he said and it came out in a breath that made her heart drop into her stomach. "What...What are you doing here?"  

"Leaving...actually," she said suddenly remembering herself, her rage and her purpose. And then, in a bright flash of anger, the last time she'd seen him.

She barged her way into the hallway, fists clench, teeth firmly clamped together. People were staring from the thin arches, a handful of servants, a Revered Mother. She longed to disappear but she couldn't summon the will with so many eyes upon her.

"Wait!"

She ignored him, but heard his long strides hasten against the slate floor. She reached the wide double doors and flung them open, balking for an instant at the frosty air before diving into the night.

"Wait!"

 It was not long before she realised her mistake. Her armour, her cloak, her boots, everything had been sent for repairs. Her slippered feet sunk deep into the snow, her robe billowed round her bare legs in the bitter wind, her loose damp hair whipped about her face, but Neria Surana was stubborn. She took five frozen steps into the dark, warmed only by her flickering rage, before Cullen was at her shoulder.

"Neria...stop," he went to fling his arm out in front of her but she fixed him with a glare that had silenced better men.

"Leave me alone," she grunted taking her sixth step and finding her feet already numb blocks of ice.

He hovered, uncertain, suddenly all awkward Templar. When she trudged onwards however he followed in her wake. "You can't go, the snow's been falling all night."

"I'll manage," she grunted.

They came to a set of steps where the frozen flakes was being diligently swept away by Inquisition soldiers, she eyed their fur-lined boots jealously as she stopped to catch her breath. 

"No, you won't," Cullen shook his head. "You'll freeze to death in that robe...and...why would you leave anyway...I mean...aren't you here to help?"

"Leliana made it clear that I'm unwelcome," her limbs were already stiff with the cold and she picked her way carefully between the sludge on the stone steps.

"Leliana is not in charge," Cullen side stepped around her and stood on the steps beneath her, even then they were not of a height. "Seeker Pentaghast and The Herald will return in a few days and I'm sure they'd welcome your help...Maker, if they won't have you I would."His gloved hand went to rub his neck and he looked to his feet. "I mean... you'd be a great inspiration to the men and..."

"You're babbling," she said, not unkindly. "And not only that but you're wrong..." she sighed, breath steaming between them. "I'm not the person you think I am."

She went to side-step him but he moved in time with her like they were performing some strange dance. "The Neria I knew would never be so irrational as to walk into a snow-storm in nothing but a robe."

 As though to prove his point the wind breathed across the courtyard, howling and fierce, flinging settled snow into spirals around them. She shivered despite herself, anger utterly dampened and she'd come no more than ten feet.

"Please," even Cullen looked cold, despite the thick fur about his shoulders. "Come inside and we can talk...it's been...well...it's been a long time."

She bit the inside of her lip, an old habit that she never seemed able to shake off. She shifted, uncomfortable with more than cold.  "Is there somewhere I could spend the night?" she said to her feet. "I'll leave in the morning."


	6. The Warm Knight

**Part I: The Witch**

_The Warm Knight_

* * *

 

If she'd thought her and Leliana had uncomfortable silences it was nothing to the tension between her and Cullen. Years ago she would've teased him for his distress, enjoyed the way his cheeks flushed and he'd stumble over his words with the grace of a bear trying ballet. Now, she couldn't summon the strength to slip back into old Neria's skin.  Leliana's words settled heavy on her shoulders now her anger was spent. She sat as close to the fire as she could and still felt the chill.

"So," Cullen said from somewhere behind her. "How've you been?"

She glared into the darkness, fire blind and only able to make out his silhouette. "I'm fine," she barked, a little too harshly. She ran her frozen fingers over her forehead, trying to stop the ache building there. "Trying to keep busy," she said a little softer, staring back into the flame.

"Leliana..." he broke off and cleared his throat. "She said you disappeared from your estate in Denerim..."

She said nothing, there was no need to affirm or deny, he clearly knew the truth. And if Leliana had shared that much then she'd probably spilled a whole lot more.

"Can we talk about something else?" she muttered. "I don't..."

"Of course..." he said. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know," she sighed. _Maker...this shouldn't be so hard._ "So...er...what about you?" She swivelled around to face him, tugging her sodden robe tighter over her knees. "I never thought I'd see you out of Order armour..."

He stood behind his desk, one hand planted firmly on it as though to steady himself. She could barely make him out in the darkness. "After...everything that happened," he said, hesitantly. "Gregoir sent me away to...recover," he sighed and set to rustling papers on his desk. "After a year or so I was sent to Kirkwall to serve as Knight Captain."

"Maker...were you there when...?"

"Yes," he cut across her, a little sharply. "Sorry...it's just...not a topic I like to dwell on. I'm sure you understand."

"Better than most," she sighed, turning back to face the fire. "I was the one who recruited Anders...seems a lifetime ago now." It stung, her part in Anders' tale... _If you'd been at Kirkwall_. Leliana's voice, accusation hot on her tongue.

"He was...a troubled man," Cullen sighed.

Neria frowned, thinking she must've heard him wrong."Huh..." she muttered, "rumour calls him an abomination. I didn't expect you of all people to be so polite."

"I am not the same man I was back then," he looked at her for the first time since they'd entered his office. "I never thought I'd get a chance but... I always wanted to apologise for the things I said at the Circle, the way I acted... it was unworthy of me." He said it all at once as though afraid he'd lose his nerve and then quickly went back to shuffling his papers. "So...I'm sorry."

That she hadn't expected. Although he no longer wore the armour she couldn't help but think of Cullen as a Templar...a mage hunter...a man with the chant in his veins where she had nothing but blood. She had expected Kirkwall to sharpen his fear, hone his anger into insanity as it had the other Templars. But though he still looked a man with the world upon his shoulders he did not seem the rabid fanatic she'd expected.

 "I understand why you asked what you did of me," she rested her chin on her knees and watched him shuffle nervously under her gaze. "And whilst we're about the business of apologies I suppose I should say sorry for being such a stubborn sow, and thank you for saving me from dying for my pride."

And for the first time that night a smile crept up the side of his cheek. "Apology accepted." 


	7. Of Heretics and Mages

 

**PART I: The Witch**

_Of Heretics and Mages_

* * *

 

"So, you're technically a heretic now?"  she twisted down her grin as they walked between the smithy and the main encampment. The blacksmith had found her odds and ends of armour that fit and she felt a little more like herself, encased in silverite.

"I suppose so..." he gave her a sidelong look. "The Chantry have named us such...I admit it feels odd being on the outside after a lifetime of service..." he broke off, brow furrowed as he looked to the red smudge of dawn breaking behind the peaks of the mountains. "I do not regret joining, the Inquisition is a worthy cause."

 Neria shrugged. "The road to the void is paved with good intentions."

Cullen stopped walking, looked at her like she'd sprouted a second head "You think closing the breach a bad idea?"

"Of course not," she gave him an incredulous look. "I just wonder at the method..."

They walked in silence for a time, snow under their boots the only sound. Occasionally she snatched a look at him, stern and quiet as the mountains encircling them. Strange to see him like this and even stranger to walk with him here of all places, where the ghost of a Templar not so dissimilar haunted her every step.

"Who taught you to fight with a blade?" his voice jogged her from uncomfortable revere. "I mean...if you don't mind me asking?"

She stopped. They had come to the outskirts of the encampment where men and women in Inquisition armour were only just emerging from their snow heavy tents. For the first time since the night before she felt uncomfortable in his presence, not wanting to lie but fearing for the danger of the truth. "It was a gift..." she muttered eventually, the answer sounding unsatisfactory even to her own ears.

Concern wrinkled his handsome features. "How...?" Before he could continue a distressed female voice broke over their whispered conversation.

"I cannot believe you would be so abdominally rude to a guest of the Inquisition!" A woman better dressed for court than the cold climes of the temple, emerged from the gates behind them utterly preoccupied with her argument, wielding a writing board as though it were a shield.   "Need I remind you of our desperate need for allies? Our utter isolation from all the organisations of Thedas..."

"Josie..." Leliana trailed after her but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw they were watched.

The other woman rounded on the bard, putting her silk draped back to Neria. "I did not expect to have to lecture you of all people, Leliana. To turn away such an influential name because of personal feelings..."

"Josie..." Leliana's voice held a note of warning but the Antivan woman was clearly too flustered to notice.

"I suggest you find her and grovel, my friend. Win back her support for the Inquisition..."

"Oh really, there's no need for grovelling," Neria interrupted, crossing her arms and smirking. Leliana threw daggers with her eyes. "Just her usual begrudging, 'I'm sorry,' will do."

"I have nothing to apologise for," Leliana shot back over Josie's shoulder. "It is you who should be sorry."

"Leliana!" the Antivan woman made her name into a curse as she stopped the woman from advancing with her free hand. "Please allow me to apologise," she snuck Neria a worried glance before glaring back at the bard. "Our spymaster has quiet forgotten herself," she hissed under her breath.

Leliana's face went suddenly blank, she stepped backwards and crossed her arms but said no more.

"Much better," Josie's fingers tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and turned to face Neria with a warm smile. "My Lady Warden Commander, it is an honour for me to welcome you to Haven. I am Lady Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador and Diplomat to the Inquisition," here the Lady gave Neria the most well executed curtsey she had seen outside of court.

"A most proper greeting, and I always thought Haven inhospitable," she bowed her own head in acknowledgment as Josephine stood. "I am much obliged ambassador, but please, I am no longer a lady or even a commander, just call me Neria."

"You honour me, my Lad- Neria," she corrected herself at the last minute. "You have already acquainted yourself with our own Commander I see."

"We...er...knew each other from the Circle," Cullen muttered from behind her and she could almost see him reaching for his much-rubbed neck.

"Of course, how could I have forgotten," Josephine flashed Neria a smile. "Perhaps, when you have a moment you could come to my office, I am sure we have much to discuss."

"Hmmph," Leliana grunted, but said no more.

Neria ignored her. "No time like the present," she gestured towards the gate and the shivering Lady Ambassador gave her a grateful smile.

"Neria," Cullen grabbed her shoulder and even through her borrowed breastplate his touch was electric "Don't leave without saying goodbye, alright?"

His lopsided smile seemed to release a thousand butterflies in her stomach. "I won't."


	8. The Pain of Remembrance

**PART I: The Witch**

_The Pain of Remembrance_

* * *

 

The ambassador's liquid brown eyes smiled over the rim of her delicate china cup. "Leliana tells me that there is something that you wish from the Inquisition in exchange for your allegiance."  

Neria shifted uncomfortable in her armchair. Until that moment the Ambassador had been all polite conversation. She'd been away from court too long to be plunged back into the game without faltering. "I...er...yes, I suppose she's right."

"And what can we do for you?" Lady Montilyet put down her tea to pick up a quill. "Assuming it is within my jurisdiction to grant..." she dipped the tip into the brass well, built into the oak desk between them. "My Lady?" she said when Neria did not respond.

"It is... a Warden matter," she said, watching the quill, making sure its tip never reached parchment. "And thus subject to a certain amount of...secrecy."

"I see..." the ambassador said, not letting go of the tool of her trade but not moving  to write. "If you do not wish to tell me then I cannot be of assistance."

Neria sighed, unsure if she could trust this woman. She would have to give a little to take a little, she remembered how this dance went, but still, she hated the sway of it. "I need to speak with someone who has recently joined your number..."

"Who?" she asked straight away, but her hands left the quill to soak in the well.

"I heard she was with the rebel mages," Neria ignored her question. "And I heard that your Herald...recruited them," she chose her words carefully. "But I've seen no mages here..."

"They were delayed in Redcliffe," the ambassador riposted without pause or explanation. "They are all due to arrive in the coming days. If you would tell me her name I could have a messenger sent to check she is among them?"

"That will be unnecessary, I shall wait. If, of course, you find that acceptable..." she said remembering her courtesy at the last minute.

"I can find space for you with the other mages," Lady Monilyet rifled through a stack of thick vellem and pulled out a much scribbled on map. "I am afraid we are pushed for space but there is a room in the..er buildings, I suppose is the generous term, in the south east courtyard. The two mages who currently occupy the other rooms are away with the Herald at present so I cannot vouch for the state you will find them in..."

* * *

Neria had dwelt in much worse places. The little hut may be rough hewn, cramped and dark but, once she'd lit a fire, it was warm and once she'd shuttered the glassless windows they dampened the noise of the fully awake town.

Though the occupants were absent she could tell much from their living space. One room glowed with wards that threatened any who dared enter with a particularly nasty shock. It piqued her curiosity, and though she could have easily sated her thirst for knowledge she decided to respect the occupants privacy. She was trying not to be that person anymore, and that meant kicking old habits.

In the main living quarters she found scattered tomes in a dozen languages, books with no shelves, an old and tattered armchair, the fabric slightly singed from being too close to the fire. With a pang she thought of Zevran, huddled over a campfire in Haven's snow, cursing the falling flakes in every language he knew. It had been a fond memory once, but even that friendship she feared would be severed by her long absence. _If he's even still alive._

It was with a heavy heart that she sank into the armchair. She stared into the fire, thinking things she would rather not and cursing herself for the utter fool she'd been.

When she finally found solace in sleep her cheeks were damp with tears long unshed.


	9. New Friends

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

"What are you doing in my chair?"

She awoke with a start. Bright daylight blinding her. She rubbed her eyes.

"No wait...who are you? Answer that one first and then we'll get to the business of my chair."

"Huh?" she ventured, blinking at the glowering figure in front of her.

"Solas," the mage shouted, unhooking his staff from his back. "Solas, get in here, we've an intruder."

Her mind seemed to spasm awake and she put her hands in the air, sleepily thinking that the gesture was becoming quite the habit. "I'm not an intruder, " she said, her voice hoarse. "I'm Neria...Ambassador Monilyet said I could stay here."

Another, slighter figure appeared from the hallway, a serious face fixed the glowering man with a look of disbelief. "Dorian...what are you doing?"

Her eyes swivelled back to the mage before her and more importantly the crackle of lightning that bristled across his staff. "Capturing spies, my eleven comrade. Now help me subdue her..."

"I told you I'm not a spy..."

"Exactly what I'd say... were I a spy," the mage stepped back into a fighting stance, lowering the staff between them. "Now, step away from the armchair and no sudden movements..."

"Dorian...do you ever listen to the Commander?" the other elf's voice was jovial...almost wry, he moved neither to help nor hinder the mage's assault.

"Cullen? Of course I listen to him, if I get distracted once in a while by his excellent hair that's not entirely my fault..."

"Had you been listening you'd realise that the woman you're currently threatening is Neria Surana," a smile crept up the elf's cheek.

"Ah," Dorian didn't move, dark eyes still alive with the glow of his staff. "I've heard that name somewhere..?"

"The Hero of Ferelden?" the elf put his hands behind his back and bowed his head ever so slightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Solas."

"Oh," the energy crackling over the mage's staff died and he took a step away from her. "Ah, a misunderstanding...yes?"

Neria grinned. "His hair _is_ very thick..."

"And yet somehow so manageable," the mages face went soft for a moment and then he seemed to remember himself. "I am Dorian of House Parvas, blah, blah, it's an honour to meet you, so on and so forth and can I now please have my armchair back..?"

"He's very precious over it," Solas' voice was melodic hinting at Dalish, though he wore no Vallasin and seemed to have an intact sense of humour, so lacking in their nomadic kin.

"Do you know what I had to go through to get even this?" Dorian span to face the the elf. "Honestly, you'd think I'd asked for the moon on a stick... is it really all that impossible to get the most basic comforts in this Maker-for-saken backwater?" he sighed, put his hands of his hips. "Now, if you please," he swirled back to Neria and flicked the air as though dismissing her. "It's been a trying week."

Old Neria would probably not have moved on principal but old Neria had been ground under foot. In fact a little bit of her liked his brusque manner. So she stood, shuffling out of the way as Dorian practically threw himself into the folds of the shabby seat.

"That is...so much better," he sighed, eyes closed. "So what do we call you then...My Lady Hero Warden?"

"Just Neria will do..."

"Ah, a humble hero...how very rare. Tell me," he shot one dark eye open, like a cat whose curiosity has disturbed his slumber. "As we are to be living under the same roof...Where do you stand on the mage-templar war?"

That dark eye gazed up at her, unblinking. Solas still clung to the door frame, head raised in interest.

"Will my answer affect how welcome I am here?" she glanced between the two of them, crossing her arms.

"By some..." Dorian's eyes were both open now, his tanned fingers twirling the end of his moustache. "When you plant your feet in any camp you make enemies...is it not so?"

"Men do not need magic to inflict evil upon the world..." she hesitated.

"But it helps does it not?" Dorian tilted his head to one side.

"That does not mean that choice should be taken from us," she sighed, the argument was age old and she did not think to end it here in this shabby shack with dawn only just arrived.

"Oh..do not think I disagree," her answer seemed to satisfy him and he settled back into the groove of his hard fought for armchair. "You will find others here who do, however."

"Such as..."

"Dorian speaks of the Herald," Solas said from the doorway.

"Oh... let us not go in circles," Dorian groaned. "The man is dense, as immovable as stone..."

"He is angered that the Herald sent us on," Solas muttered, as though his fellow mage hadn't spoke. "Giving, by way of explanation, that there were too many magic wielders in the caravan..."

"And too many mages will attract..."

"Demons," they all said together. Neria smiled.

"He sounds a delightful fellow," she muttered. "When can I expect to meet him?"

"We left two days ahead of them," Solas said. "But it could be longer with the weather. Do not expect...a welcome greeting."

"I never do," she sighed.


	10. Once a Templar, Always a Templar

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Civilisation provided some comforts that she would otherwise have spurned. There was, of course, the roof over her head, the assurance of walls around her, the certainty of food and fire. Those were all well and good. But what she'd missed on the road, more than she'd care to admit, was being able to drink her problems into the gutter.

The rum was as bad as the first time she'd drank; around a campfire with friends and terror. It burned and choked before it comforted but comfort it did. Friends may come and go...but rum...rum would always be waiting for her.

She took another swig, emptying the glass and filling it from the bottle before her.

All around voices were raised in song and good cheer but underneath a strained note sang. Fear had permeated these people. The sky above was torn open, the mages and templars warred among themselves, the chantry had abandoned them. And they drank, as she did, to distract themselves from terror.

"I didn't think mages were permitted to drink."

She must've been more absorbed than she'd thought for him to creep up on her like that and when she dragged her eyes upwards he blurred a little round the edges, like a painting left in the rain.

"It's a Grey Warden tradition," she countered, noting with a little distaste the slur in her words. "One more of our closely kept secrets..."

"May I sit?" Cullen rested his gloved hand on the chair before her, looking about as comfortable as a Sister in a brothel.

"Are you going to drink with me?" she grinned up at him. "Because to sit you have to drink. It's the rules."

"I...er..." he reached for the back of his neck, eyes darting around.

She kicked the chair out for him, pouring him an overlarge mug and sliding it across the table.  He sat awkwardly, the pommel of his greatsword protruding too far for his legs to fit under the table. She couldn't help her snort of laughter.

"And what's so funny?" he asked, repositioning his sword belt.  

"You...here of all places," she shook her head and took a long swig on the bottle.

"Why is that so strange?" he asked, slowly taking off his gloves.

"This is the first place..." she stopped, realising what she was going to say. He was staring at her intently, eyes flickering with the candle flame between them. "You haven't drunk."

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "You know this stuff will rot your guts?"

"I know that if you're not drinking you shouldn't be sitting," she went to steal back her cup but he caught it first, raised it in the air as though to examine it and took an unhappy sip.

 "By the Maker, how can you drink that?!" he coughed.

"Years of experience," she sighed.

"I didn't think they'd serve this swill in the King's court," Cullen smiled but her own grin died on her lips.

"No..." she muttered. "They don't."

She took another gulp, deep, deeper, wishing she could drown herself in the bottom of the bottle. When she slammed it back on the table her head was dancing and the rum was finished. She slumped back in her chair.

"Did I say the wrong thing?" he sighed.

Through the fuzzy blur of booze she could see his concerned look. This was the second time he'd probed her about court life. Drunk as she was Neria was no fool and Cullen was as subtle as a charging bull. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. "Once a week I would slip from the gilded cage of court and make a beeline for the Tavern...and this swill." She went to take another swig and glared at the bottle when only a few drops burnt over her tongue.

"Do you miss it?" Cullen sat back in his chair. "Being Royal Advisor, I mean."

"No," she spat. Clenching her fist around the glass bottle. "Are you going to drink that?" She gestured with the neck to his nearly full cup.

He snatched it away from her prying hands a second time. "I think you've had enough..."

She glared at him, a snarl working up her lips and an insult sharp on her tongue.

"I on the other hand..." and he drained the cup in one.

Neria could only stare as he slammed the cup back down, his face contorted in a pallid grimace. "Maker's tears...that was..."

Her anger evaporated as she watch him splutter and cough. "Such a novice," she teased. "You need more practice..."

"I'm sure you'll happily oblige with lessons," his grin was a little sloppy and Neria's alcohol soaked mind wondered if they were talking about something else now. "I mean...if you're staying that is?"

"So many questions..." she shook her head. "Not enough rum..."

"Should I...buy you a drink?"

He looked at her then. Eyes wide and glinting with fire. She swallowed. The shadows playing across his face seemed to mask his features in another man's and in that second she imagined how easy it would be to pretend. She recoiled from the thought and found herself standing and swaying over the table, hands planted firmly on the wood. Cullen rushed to his feet to grip her firmly by the shoulder.

"Let's get you back," he muttered and she realised people all around her had stopped in their merriment to stare.

She lurched backwards, legs bashing against her abandoned chair, stomach sinking into her suddenly full bladder. The silent room span as though upon a roiling sea. As she glanced around hostile eyes stared from every table and instinct told her to reach into the fade.

And so she did.

Her being thrummed with the familiar tingle of power and her tainted blood sang as she stepped through the Veil. The whispers started immediately but even drunk as she was she knew better than to listen. The room shifted. The dissonance  of being on two planes at once began.

"Neria!" she could see Cullen through a haze of green light. To his eyes she was no longer there and to her being the matter of this world was no longer an obstacle. Still, she stumbled underneath his arm, not wanting to alarm him with the eerie sensation of another being stepping through his own.

She was too quick for the cleansing he cast, out and away into the night with the blue magic on her heels. It disappointed her that he'd done that. _Once a Templar, always a Templar._

She stalked, bitter and drunk, with the fade fluttering at her finger tips, towards the hut. The threads of her concentration were tugged by rum and anger. As she stumbled through the wooden wall the spell spluttered... and died.

She fell to her knees.

"I am impressed,"  a lyrical voice said from the darkness. "You manipulated wavelengths outside the visible spectrum, refracted the energy and then used it to cloak your aura."

Solas stood over her, hand held out as though to help her up. "I have seen magic like that only once before," he continued, oblivious to the way her stomach was lurching. "I was deep in the fade..."

He was quick enough to dart away from the bile that dragged itself up from her gut to splatter across his bedroom floor. She heaved again. Her throat burned. She gagged, but nothing more came. She rolled back on her haunches.

All the awe quickly vanished from Solas, replaced with revolution as she wiped her face with the back of her hand."Have you been drinking?"  he said, with not a little contempt.

She was about to splurge the whole sorry truth of it. The pain she carried with her like tumour, that deep festering guilt that drove her to seek comfort in a bottle. When a loud banging cut across her and Solas narrowed his eyes towards the hallway.

"Neria?" Cullen's voice punctuated his blows, seeming close despite being muffled by the wood. "Open the door right now!"

"You have upset our resident Templar it seems," Solas muttered.

She put her fingers to her lips desperately. "Please," she whispered.

Solas rolled his eyes as the banging continued. "Remain here." He lithely stepped around the puddle of vomit she'd left on his floorboards but before he could dismiss the wards at his door a voice echoed from the hallway.

"Who dares disturb my slumber at such an hour!"  Dorian roared and Neria winced as she heard him fling open the front door.

"Is she here?" Cullen sounded flustered even through the wood. She shuffled backwards, wincing. "Neria...is she here?"

"Now Commander I know our little hero entices you so but truly it's the middle of the..."

"Is she here, Dorian?" Cullen growled. "She's drunk...she could be a danger to this whole camp..."

"Oh so that's it is it?" Dorian sounded like he was squaring up to the Templar. "A mage can't even get a little tiddly without being a threat...what utter nonsense you are sprouting!"

"She used...a form of magic I have never seen..."

"Hello! Breach in the sky? Bigger things to worry about than your Templar senses tingling...."

"She disappeared into thin air..."

"Is that it?" Dorian sounded exasperated. "No demon summoning, no dead rising, no blood magic?  Sounds all a bit dull, Commander."

"But I..."

"Why don't you run along and get some sleep now? I'm sure she'll turn up in the morning..." Dorian yawned.

"I err..."

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Commander. I understand the lure of warm body even if I do not share your...lusts."

"Lust?!" Cullen repeated, and she had to stifle a groan. Solas raised an eyebrow in her direction and she buried her head in her hands.

"Oh, come now. I've seen the way you look at her...like a starving man at meat..."

"I have... great respect for her," Cullen cut across him. "I don't look at her like that," a pause, a sharp intake of breath."...do I?"

"Definitely," Dorian taunted. "Now off with you Commander. I need my beauty sleep."

"But..."

"Shoo..."

The door snapped shut. Cullen's footsteps crunched over the snow and the silence in the shack. She chanced a peak at Solas. He was shaking his head at her bedraggled form.

"Solas?" Dorian shouted from the hallway. "Did you hear all that? We've a search party to plan."

With a wave of his hands the runes glowed a deeper blue and then vanished. He opened the door, wide enough for Dorian to step through.

"Unnecessary," Solas indicated her cowering form. "She stepped through my wall."

"Well, well, well," Dorian pulled the cord of his silken dressing gown a little tighter. "You are far more interesting than your simple Circle brethren. Vanishing in thin air, stepping through walls," he leaned down, his voice a theatrical whisper. "Ensorcelling the Commander."

She stumbled to her feet, the accusation stinging a little too close. "I have not ensorcelled anyone!"

"Oh...I did not mean in the blood magic sense, just the regular boring kind..." Dorian grinned and then his face fell to his foot and he wrinkled his nose. "What...what's this I've stepped in?!"

"Err..." Neria began, thinking now would be a pretty good time to bolt as Dorian pulled his bare foot from the sticky cocktail of rum and bile.

"That would be the Hero of Ferelden's vomit," Solas said, a little too helpfully.


	11. Not Her Anymore

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Two days flung themselves passed in the safety of their hut. In Solas she found a remarkable mind, a quick wit, a friend whose curiosity was as deep as his knowledge. She'd never thought to find another so ready to believe the secrets she had plundered from the Fade. Still, there were things she was not ready to reveal, even to one whom she was sure would understand.

Caustic, Dorian may be but she appreciated his bluntness. Years at court had left her with a distaste of the constant bowing and scraping, a hatred her exile only sharpened. His offhanded arrogance was a familiar companion, having spent years scoffing at one not so dissimilar. This time the memory did not come with the pang of regret. In those two days she was happy enough to think on her distant friends, she even wrote Zevran a letter, which she subsequently tossed into the fire realising she had no way of knowing where he was and even if she did that sending him word could endanger them both.

Her immediate friends were proving much more of a trial.

She hadn't approached Leliana. Even Dorian spoke of her only in whispers. She wondered at the change in the bard, fearing she'd played her own part in the cold mask she now wore.

The Tevinter mage proved a great ally in dealing with Cullen. She'd watched from the shadows of the half-shuttered window as the Templar asked after her, grim-faced and clutching his neck. A great part of her wanted to reassure him herself but the buzzing in her stomach and the way her hands twitched simply watching him told her she would  only make a fool of herself.

On the third day she was breaking her fast by the fire when Dorian shot in through the front door, frost on his heels.

"He's back," he said dramatically. "Scouts have spotted the band a mile south, they'll he here in the hour."

"Maker's balls," she stood, leaving her untouched porridge on the hearth, finding her appetite fled. "I need to get my armour back," she rushed into the small adjoining room she'd called hers for the last four days and rifled through her pack for her cloak.

"You don't need to be so nervous you know..." Dorian appeared at the doorway, "you're the Hero of Ferelden, he'll be grovelling at your feet for an alliance with you barbarians."

"I'm not exactly in the position to give it," she grunted throwing aside dirty robes and finally pulling free a fur lined cloak.

"Ah yes, your fall from grace," Dorian drawled. "So...what did you do? I've heard rumours..."

"Of course you have," she flung the cloak around her shoulders and barged past him. "I'll be back in an hour...eat that porridge if you like, it'll just get cold."

"Such presents you bestow on me," sarcasm dripped from every word. "Another time then."

* * *

"Better," she grinned down at the smith as he adjusted the last strap on her breastplate. "You've done a good job..."

"Felt wrong miss...if you don't mind my say so," he stepped backwards to admire the now gleaming armour in the pale sunlight. "Some master craftsmen made that, these hands are not worthy to even scrub it clean."

"Don't put yourself down, Herric," Neria said, grabbing her sharpened longsword and slinging it across her back. It felt good, that familiar weight between her shoulder blades. "Here," she untied a pouch from her belt and tossed it at the smith. He fumbled but the clink of silver on silver was lost to the racket in the forge.

"Miss...you are too kind," he bowed his head a little, but when he glanced back up at her a grimace tugged down his features. "And I do not want to be one to look a gift horse in the mouth but er...How is it you come by this money?"

She raised an eyebrow at that, seeing the fear in the smith's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well, miss," he shuffled awkwardly. "How is that...one such as yourself should come by such a fortune?"

"You think I stole it?" she hissed.

"I'm not accusing you of anything miss...I'm just...curious is all."

"Not that it's much of your business," she crossed her arms defensively. "But I had a well placed job in Denerim for which I was allotted land and titles."

"Oh Maker forgive me," his large shoulders slumped and horror crept over his face. "You're... _her._ "

"No," she shook her head. "Not anymore."


	12. The Power of Blood and Fear

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

She watched, from the raised platform of the courtyard of huts, flanked by Dorian and Solas, as the first of the rebel mages were filtered through the gates by Inquisition soldiers. Tired, footsore and silent they queued at the end of a long table where Lady Montilyet sat, calmly explaining the contract to each mage in turn.   

Most signed their name without a second glance and scuttled to the awaiting vats of soup, steaming enticingly in the frozen air.

Neria's eyes swept down the slumped line of her brethren. She had seen defeat before and these people were broken by it, more prisoner than ally. They clung to staves for support, their robes torn, gazes blank. She did not see her quarry among them and she sighed, about to turn away when her eyes settled on a spark of rebellion.

A man stood, proud and unbroken, his jaw set and his eyes hard stones of defiance. He looked upon his fellow mages with a disdain clear, even at a distance.

"He will not sign away his freedom so easily," Solas whispered to her left, echoing her own thoughts. "For one such as he, it is too hard won."

"It would be foolhardy to make a show here," she muttered. "Better to sign now and flee later."

"A logic I doubt he will demonstrate," Dorian sighed, examining his fingernails. "You barbarians are so stubborn."

"Annnd the pot calls the kettle black," she rolled her eyes but the unbroken mage had now reached the first in line and she hushed Dorian's no doubt barbed retort.

He strode to the desk and before Ambassador Montilyet could blink the mage had snatched the vellum from between her fingers. A silence settled across the courtyard. The bedraggled mage at the front of the queue took a shuffling step backwards. Neria grimaced.

The man's mouth moved with the words and, the further he read, the narrower his eyes became until they were no more than slits of rage. 

"You would have us as slaves," he said, loud enough to carry to her ears, loud enough to reach the mages still crowding through the gates. Ambassador Montilyet recoiled as he hoisted the document into the air. "They would have us as slaves," he repeated, turning to face his brethren. "They would take our blood to trace us...they are no better than the Chantry!"

Flames leapt from his hand, eagerly devouring the banner of paper. It spat and crackled as it burnt, ashes flying in the wind and settling with the snow.

There was an instant, a strange lingering second in which no-one moved. All eyes were upon the floating ash and the defiant mage stood underneath, arm still up stretched, a rapturous grin on his face. Neria's stomach dropped. _The calm before the storm._

"I've got a bad feeling about this..." Dorian murmured next to her.

It started as a mutter from the bundle of mages fresh through the gates. Neria's eyes flickered to the sudden movement, her hands twitching behind her back, eager to grasp a hilt.

"We were slaves to the Tevinters," another mage shouted from the crowd. "We shan't be slaves to the Inquisition!"

Neria felt it as a shiver up her spine, a tingle over her tongue, a tugging in her tainted blood. The Veil was pierced. And before she could move, before she could blink, the Inquisition soldiers reaching for weapons near the gate were engulfed in a spurt of fire.

"I told you-," Dorian muttered but she didn't stay to hear him finish. She stepped through the Veil.

In the time it took to think herself there, she was there, between the penned in mages and the wall of soliders; elbows, pikes, fists, blades all whirred past her as she ducked and weaved. The air stank of burnt flesh.

She snatched the wrist of a soldier, stopping his raised sword falling into a cowering mage. His shocked face was an inch from hers and with graceful ease she span him round, brought her knee as high as she could and forced him to the ground. Like a river newly broke from a dam the mages surged forward, tripping over themselves to be free from the press. Neria was thrown into the nearest solider, almost impaled upon his blade. She held onto his shoulders, keeping him back with a strength imbued by her magic as the mages fled behind her.

"STOP!" A deep baritone sounded over the dying battle.

Sensing a space cleared behind her Neria stepped into it, and back through the Veil. The long faced solider who she'd been gripping dropped his jaw in amazement. Whispers started from the mages behind her, still shying away from the soldiers.

"Peace," she said, but put enough threat into the word that the soldier blanched a little. "Not all of these mages are a threat."

"I shall be the judge of that." The sea of Inquisition green parted and a man strode towards her. Small dark eyes peered down an eagle-like nose, full lips curled upwards in contempt and the man who could only be the Herald of Andraste gripped the hilt of a greatsword slung at his hip, looking more a child's toy in his great paw of a hand.  

Neria Surana, Hero of Ferelden, took him in with a glance and decided that if she had to fight this mountain of a man she'd best draw her daggers. Not even with her magics could she hope to parry such a blow as those metal encased arms promised.

"Who are you?" he growled, looking down on her like a flea he'd plucked from his back.

"Who are you?" she spat, knowing perfectly well the answer but not caring to play nicely.

"I've no time for games, elf," he stepped forwards menacingly but Neria held her ground. His greatsword rattled. "Move, or I shall have you arrested for protecting enemies of the Inquisition..."

"We are not your enemies," a voice said from behind her and the unbroken mage stepped to her side. "We simply wish to be free..."

The Herald snorted. "An old tune, mage. One I tire of hearing. The Inquisition offers you sanctuary not enslavement..."

"You would take phylacteries from us," the mage at her side thrust his chin in the air. "I agreed to no such arrangement..."

"That," and the Herald moved quicker than a man of his size has any right to, looming over the mage. "Is your punishment for aiding Tevinter. Now sign the agreement or I will give you your freedom by my blade."

Neria bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't doubt that she could kill him. Slip into the fade and strike from behind like a snake. She could probably even escape...over the walls and into the wilderness before the Inquisition could take it all in. Killing, however, seemed to be an all too easy solution of late, the first grasp of a mind used to solitude.

All colour had fled from the unbroken mages face, his hands white knuckled his staff,  his eyes wet and wide, perceiving his death. "It was not our choice to aid them..." he whimpered. "Fiona..."

"You chose your leader, that you chose badly is a testament to your failures," the Herald shifted his weight. "Now you must choose again. Sign this document or be killed like the cur you are."

"Do you not think that a little unfair," Neria could hold her silence no longer. "To punish them for another's mistakes..."

"Keep out of this, stranger," the Herald's icy stare was all for her for a second. "I'll deal with you later."

"You shall not bully us into submission, Herald," the mage said. "You cannot simply slaughter us like sheep..."

"Huh," the Herald took an almost lethargic step away from the man. _Strange,_ Neria thought, he did not seem the type to back down. Then she heard the slinking of metal against a sheath and too late it blazed across her mind that he needed space to swing such a massive sword.

"No!" she screamed, reaching out a useless hand.

His blood felt like warm rain. It drenched her, blinded her, spluttered against her palm. She could feel the power of it. She bit down, tasting copper, not sure if it was her blood or his.

When she finally felt steady enough to open her eyes she found the mages head staring up at her from the floor. Eyes already cold and dead and full of accusation.

"Does anybody else wish for freedom?" the Herald of Andraste was knelt next to the headless corpse. "Or will you all be signing?"

Neria had never known so many people to be so still. The quiet was more unnerving for the only sound, the scrape of metal against fabric as the Herald cleaned his sword on the dead mage's robe. In this silence he stood, staring at the shocked mages as he sheathed his sword with a sigh and smiled.

"Good," he muttered. "Lady Montilyet will have the document rewritten by noon. You," he swept his arm over the gathered mages. "Will wait here. Commander Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast have my permission to kill anyone inciting terror. Let it be known that mages refusing to sign will be imprisoned and at dawn tomorrow... hanged."

Roots sprung up around Neria's legs as she stared at the dirt still drinking the blood, at the blood still flowing from the stump. The power that engulfed her senses slowly ebbed away and she swallowed. Her hands were shaking. She felt as spent as the dead mage and only pride kept her from falling to the floor.

"You," a voice, somewhere very distant muttered and it was a while before she realised it was addressing her. "Come with me."


	13. Herald and Hero

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Leliana sat behind a pile of correspondence, her face expressionless as she watched them enter the war room. Neria did not doubt that the bard had been present at the slaughter in the courtyard. She wondered how the woman could be so changed as to serve such a master.

Herald of Andraste, they named him, a man who walked at ease with death administered so brutally. She stood, blood still drying on her skin as he stalked around a large map sprawled upon an even larger table. Still she stood as he sat, and when he gestured to a chair she did not move to take it. She would not be here long.

"Josephine insists that I be polite to you," the Herald spoke from over steepled fingers. "Hero of Ferelden."

"A thousand flatteries will not make up for that man's death," she spat, unable to keep her anger at bay any longer. "A peaceful solution could have been found." 

"That _was_ the peaceful solution, Hero," he sighed. "A healthy dose of fear does more for peace than all the words in the world."

"All you've done is cut off one head for two more to sprout, the mages will not take this lightly."

"Who are you to judge my actions?" he said. "Some Hero gone ten years to rot. I have been trying to keep order among these people for two months. I know what is best for them."

Neria sighed, she'd known the man less than half an hour and already she despised him. It seemed warm welcomes were not frequent among the Inquisition. "Have it as you wish, Herald," she shrugged. "I am not here to dispense advice...."

"So why are you here?" he threw himself back in the chair. "Rumour has it you've been living wild for six years," he gestured to Leliana. "Ran away from your duties at court. Isn't that so, spymaster?"

Leliana said nothing, her blue, blue eyes pools of blankness that unnerved Neria as they settled on her.

"I am here to question a member of the Inquisition," she tore her eyes away from her friend and to the lean stubbled face of the Herald. "My business is my own."

"No," he said. "Your business is with a member of the Inquisition and thus with me. I advise you be forthcoming."

He did nothing to veil the threat in his words. Neria's heart pumped faster, she could feel its desperate pulse at her temple, longing for release. "You do not command the Grey, Herald. I have no reason to tell you."

"Blackwall, is it?" his fingers twitched over each other.

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Our resident Grey Warden, the only one of your kind who has not fled this land, bar your esteemed self...and the King of course."

Neria closed her eyes and reached out instinctively to touch this other blighted mind. It would be good to find one of her brothers here, perhaps he could assist in her quest...but as she spread her own silent song out she could sense... nothing. She opened her eyes to see the Herald watching her, forehead wrinkled with his raised brow. "You have no Grey Warden here," she said. "What do you mean fled?"

The Herald grinned, a predatory smile that suited his long calculating face."Oh, you don't know? Perhaps we can exchange information. You tell me why your here, and we'll tell you what we know of your fellow Wardens."

Neria cursed herself. To let the Herald tug on her curiosity was an amateur's mistake. He'd funnelled her into the trap as deftly as he'd killed the mage. Her fists clenched at her sides. "Withholding information from a Warden in the line of duty is a criminal offence in Ferelden...

"It may have escaped your notice but we are not in Ferelden," he waved his hand across the map. "These lands are claimed by the Marquis DuRellion. Haven belongs to Orlais..."

"What?!" she couldn't help but be outraged. "Alistair...The King would never allow it."

 "You have no jurisdiction here, Warden," and his eyes lit up as her own hopes guttered. "Now, tell me why you're here."

"I..." she stumbled, swallowed, could not find the strength to fight this battle. _How could he do this...sell Haven to the highest bidder?!_ It came as a heavier blow than she'd like to admit. She glanced at Leliana but the bard was shuffling papers and refused to meet her with even a cold stare. The Herald's malevolent grin was firmly in place as he watched her fumble for words.

Her shoulders slumped. Her fist uncoiled. Again she'd played the game...and lost. She was so tired of fighting. She took a deep breath. "I came here seeking Grand Enchanter Fiona," she said to the varnished floorboards. "I believe she may have information regarding the taint."

"There," the Herald clapped his hands together in delight. "That wasn't so hard now was it? Why keep such a thing a secret..."

"Neria is used to keeping secrets," Leliana's clipped voice stung like a whip. "She trusts none of us."

"Well," the Herald crossed his long legs, rubbing dried blood from his chainmail. "If Neria wishes the Inquisition's aid then she will have to learn to trust...and quickly."


	14. Fading Friends

**PART I: The Witch**

* * *

 

_Haven was a beacon. Glowing, glistening, thrumming with power spent over the ages. Screams sounded off walls that stretched endlessly upwards. Smoke hung in the air in thick, unmoving spirals. Spirits clustered to the breach but they shied from where she stepped sensing her as she sensed them. She ignored their pleas, their grasping cries._

_She stalked one much greater than they._

_He was drawn here. To this...catalyst. She didn't doubt it. She had seen the patterns of his passing these last few nights; the inky marks left upon the air like a scent. She hunted the endless corridors of the fade, the black city looming eternally above, but all to no avail. He would not be found if he did not wish to be._

_So on this, her third night searching, she sat instead, crosslegged on the constantly shifting ground. Sometimes checks of black and white would show between the gravel and it was then she closed her eyes. She would not allow her memories to taint this place._

_"Who is Cullen?"_

_The corner of her lip twitched upwards. His voice as familiar as the lines of her palms. She should've know to wait rather than to seek._

_The first time she'd met him she'd been unsure of his nature. Trust was a difficult bond in the perilous spirit world, where her powers were as much a beacon as the tear in the Veil. To demons and...other beings._

_"He...," she slowly opened one eye. "He is a friend."_

_This night he'd taken the guise of a large cat, he arched his back, individual vertebrae protruding from his lush grey fur. It was an apt shape, if his nature was as she thought. "Like Alistair was your friend?"_

_It stung and she could not hide it. "No..."_

_"I have hurt you," he said. "Yet, you think of them in the same... sphere...interesting." He sat back on his haunches, raising a paw to his awaiting tongue. His jaws never moved as he spoke. "I did not think  mortals capable of lying to themselves. What do you hope to gain from denial?"_

_It was not the line of questioning the spirit usually took. He'd drawn from her a thousand scraps of knowledge since the ropes between them had been tied, but only once had he dare to probe her personal thoughts. She swallowed, balling her robe in her fist. "I would only cause him pain."_

_"Why?" His eyes were of the purest amber and they gleamed with a child's desperate need to know._

_"Our natures are...too different."_

_"It is more than that."_

_"Yes," she agreed. "It is." But refused to say more._

_He moved as no real cat would to extend his paw to the whorls of light overhead. "What is it?"_

_"They call it the Breach," she said, grateful for the change in topic. "Something has torn the Veil between our worlds. Demons fall from our sky."_

_"Who are 'they'?" he asked immediately._

_She couldn't help but grin, of all the things he could have asked...but that was often the way with her Spirit friend. "The Inquisition. They fight the demons."_

_"With magic or swords?"_

_"Both."_

_"Like you?"_

_"No," she smiled. "As separate people. They have soldiers and mages."_

_"And Cullen is one of them?" he said, stretching out on the gravel as though bathing in the sun._

_"He is," she sighed. "As is Fiona."_

_He lost the guise of a cat at the woman's name, a bright glow made her blink away but he quickly dimmed. When she opened her eyes he'd take on his true form, a ball of flickering energy, white as hot fire is white. "We will know soon!" he squealed, zipping around her like an overexcited pup . "She will tell us! And you will piece the puzzle together. We will finally know!"_

_"Calm yourself," she said, though not unkindly. His excitement was infectious and she hugged herself to stem the bubbling in her gut. "She may not wish to speak on it."_

_"The spell must be the answer! The spell I saw him cast..."_

_"It may not be so simple..." she started but broke off, hushing him. A shrill buzzing in the back of her mind told her a ward had been triggered in her sleeping quarters._

_"I have to leave," she whispered quickly._

_"You can't!" he whined, flashing into his favourite form, a small and petulant child._

_"Wait here, my friend," she smiled reassuringly. "I shall come back, if I can."_


	15. The Bard's Song

**PART I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Her dagger was slicing through the night before her eyes opened. She jumped into a crouch, her body more awake than her mind. A shadow lurched away from her, tumbling back from the makeshift bed. 

"Neria!"

She stopped. Heart thrumming. Confused. The hilt of the dagger sticky in her palms. Energy crackled across her skin, lighting the shack for a sudden second before it died. A figure hunched at the foot of her bed and Neria was about to fling herself at it when it spoke again.

"It's me."

She lowered her blade. "Maker's hairy balls, Leli! All a bit cloak and dagger isn't it?!"

"Sssh," a rustle from the end of the bed but Neria could see nothing more. "Light a candle."

She stood, bare feet padding on the floor as she groped the empty shelves for her candle holder. When she lit it with a click it illuminated the  entire room in its soft glow.

Leliana pulled back her hood. Her blue, blue eyes deep pools of sorrow. "Do you see now, why I was angry?"

"Not really," Neria sighed, sick of a night of non sequiturs. She waited, holding the candle high above the bard's head.

"The Herald..." she whispered. "He does not wish change..."

"Leli...it's really rather late to be making no sense," Neria sighed. "Can't this wait until morning?"

"In the morning the Herald will attempt to close the Breach," she whispered. "You must be seen there...steal the glory of success from him."

"Are you drunk?" Neria scoffed. "Were you there in the courtyard? The man's a tyrant!"

"Exactly why we need to bring him down," Leliana's cold mask was firmly in place, her voice no more than a whisper. Neria found herself grateful for the muffling wards she'd placed round her room. "He cannot be allowed to lead the Inquisition..."

"I think it's a little late for that..."

" _You_ could snatch it from him," Leliana laid her long legs across the straw mattress of  Neria's bed, her hands resting demurely on her lap as though she hadn't just incited mutiny.

"You would go against Andraste's will?" Neria lowered the candle to better see the bard's expression but it told her nothing.

"He is not Her Herald," Leliana hissed. "I refuse to believe that She would give a monster such power."

"Why?" Neria shrugged. Leliana shot her a filthy look but she would not be silenced. "Because you disagree with him? You do not know the will of the Maker, Leli. None of us do. Perhaps He wishes mages to be leashed and slaughtered...."

"No," Leliana said, her arm cutting through the air. "I won't believe it."

"It does not require your belief," Neria said. "He is the one with the power to close the rifts, without him...we are all doomed."

"We would not have to kill him." Yet the words were spoken with the softness of an assassin. "We could simply...use him to close the rifts whilst...others lead us."

"If by others you mean me, then I have to point out another fatal error in your plan," Neria said. "I am not staying."

"But why leave?" Leliana was pleading now, a little of her old self shining through the cracks in her mask. "Neria...I've missed you."

Her words hung in the air. Neria looked anywhere but those cold blue eyes. She could do nothing but disappoint and anything she said would be empty of promise. So she held her tongue.

"Think on all I've said," the bard stood, a graceful silent movement. "I'll be waiting should you wish to talk."

Leliana turned to leave but Neria grasped her hand.

"I missed you too," she squeezed the other woman's cold fingers. "And for what it's worth...I'm sorry."

The bard released her slowly. "As am I."


	16. Risk

**PART I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Leliana's words were still ringing around her sleepless skull when a tingling sensation of a broken ward followed by a soft rapping at her door found Neria suddenly alert.

 _Could someone have heard us?_ She stared at the barrier between her and the living room, picturing the Herald's long, lean face, distorted with accusation. She held herself still and a second later the _tap, tap, tap,_ began again, all at odds with the glowering visage before her eyes.

 "I know you are awake," a lilting voice. "I see the candle from under your door."

Another night time visitor. She hesitated for a moment before stumbling to her feet. She opened the door just a crack.

"May I come in?"

Solas' usually cool demeanour was broken. His lips were pursed in discomfort, his eyes darting between her and then shifting behind him, as though expecting to be disturbed. "Please, there is little time."

 _I am going to regret this,_ she thought it immediately as she let the elf in and he paced right to the other side of the room, still fully dressed despite the late hour, fists clenched, eyebrows drawn together.

"I have a theory," he began as she leant against the wooden door for support. "Have you ever attempted to conceal more than one person with your magic?"

"I..." she began but he cut across her.

"I believe it would be possible," he stopped pacing, to look at her. "If you are physically connected to one who can focus their will into the aura..."

"Solas," she covered her eyes with her palms. "Please tell me you didn't come here in the middle of the night to talk shop. What are you driving at?"

"There are three mages in the dungeons," Solas said. "Guilty of nothing more than wanting to be free. I would not ask for your help were it not necessary but they are heavily guarded. I could devise some premise to get in..."

"But you want me to get them out," she finished. "Maker's breath, Solas...I cannot do it."

"What?" his expression shot from agitated to angry. "But you must, the Herald will see them hanged..."

"I know," she sighed. "And I don't want it any more than you...but...it's a huge risk."

"I will take any fall that is required..."

"As soon as they are found missing the blame will fall on me..." she sighed. "I made my disagreement known to the Herald."

"Without proof he cannot raise a hand against you," Solas darted forward grabbed her around the wrist. She could see the desperation in his eyes and felt a crack in her resolve.  

"The man does not operate on logic, Solas," she muttered, trying to pry his grip off. "You think he cares for proof."

"Will you have me beg?" he hissed, so close she could smell his breath. "I will, Hero, if that is what is required."

Neria groaned. _Some hero I am...putting my own safety above that of others. Coward of Ferelden more like. So terrified of death that I'd make a deal with a demon to avoid it._ "Please, Solas..."

"Must I get on my knees? Is it gold you want?" he gave her a disgusted look, grip tightening to leave white marks on her flesh. "Anything you require..."

"Don't..." she muttered. "I don't require anything..."  _I know how it is to be caged and awaiting my doom._ "If it works...I shall help you..."

Relief flooded away his anger. He sighed a happy breath and let her go. "Thank you, Neria."

"It's fine," she gritted her teeth. "Let's see if this works."

She held out her hand and he took it almost reverently, a stark contrast to his fierce grip that still marked her arm. As their fingers entwined she plunged them through the Fade.

For a second Solas stood before her, whole and unchanged, as the world around him shifted into the serenity of the Fade. Then she felt a surge within her chest, a tingling up her spine and Solas was no more than a warm touch and a hazy light.

"It worked!" his voice was still distinct. "This is...incredible."

"We will have to be silent and swift," she muttered. "I cannot hold this for long without lyrium."

"I have a bottle should you falter," he said. "We have wasted enough time, let us move."

The indistinct walls of the hut proved little trial, the two elves slipped through them with the ease of a sharp blade. Solas gasped at the sensation much the same way as she had the first time she'd stumbled through a hurlock. He gripped her hand a little tighter after that, his fingers slippery with anxious sweat.

They passed the blurs of people mingling outside the tavern despite the cold air. Their laughter and music and song all warped to a dim rush, like waves lapping against a shore. No-one paid any mind to the footsteps forming in the snow beneath feet that were not there. Still Neria tugged her companion into the shadows of walls and huts, picking their way slowly passed the night guards and towards the shack that served as a prison.

Only one man stood barring the doorway. His half-lit form was indistinct but Neria had seen the stance a hundred times before. Cullen stood vigil, his sword ready and unsheathed before him.

 _Of course,_ she cursed herself for not realising sooner, felt her concentration falter as she tugged Solas out of the Templar's line of sight.

She let go of his hand. The spell spluttered.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, safe in the shadows of a small space between the outer wall and a shack.

She didn't want to explain. Didn't really know the answer herself. Cullen's presence made her uneasy. She liked it little that they were on opposite sides of this war. Wished there could be some resolution to the chasm that had always been between them. 

"Neria," Solas tugged on her arm, pulling her deeper into the shadow. "Do you need a potion already?"

"I can't do this," she muttered. "Cullen will be blamed."

"The Herald will not suspect him. Not with his history. He cannot prove a lie..."

Torn she shuffled her feet in the snow. Risking her own life was never simple but to risk her friend's...a good man...who'd been the only person happy at her return...it was a difficult burden.

She looked into Solas' pleading eyes. Thought of the mages in that shack, huddled and awaiting a death not even suited to a beast. Thought of Cullen in their place, imploring his innocence. Thought of all she had suffered to stand here with these fates in her hand.

And she made a decision. 

 


	17. The Secret's Out

**PART I: The Witch**

* * *

 

"There are too many of them," Dorian whispered in her ear, pushing through the crowd of mages with unveiled contempt. "I found one trying to sneak into our hut this morning. _Our hut!_ As if we had any room to spare!"

Neria yawned. Barely listening as they slipped through the crowd. Her mind was still full of the thousand things she'd heard and seen last night, having not slept a single wink. Exhaustion numbed the apprehension. She felt nothing as she tapped a rather corpulent mage on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she said when he turned his small piggy eyes on her. "We need to get through."

He crossed his arms over his bulging stomach. "Says who?"

Dorian shifted at her shoulder. "Says the Hero of bloody Ferelden, you ignorant swine."

_Balls!_

The mage and, indeed, all the people in the vicinity took a considerable step backwards. A familiar muttering began. People pointed. She felt like punching Dorian in his smarmy face.

"Ah! Now isn't that better, a little space to breathe!" he put his hands on his hips. "You should pull rank more often!"

"Not when ones whereabouts are supposed to be secret," she hissed.

"Ah," Dorian said. "A plague of locusts on my house."

The whispers spread, as whispers do, like wildfire through wood. Mages, soldiers, servants, all were packed into the courtyard and all turned to nudge their neighbour and point, or smirk or murmur behind their hands, as her and Dorian passed. _How long before they reach ears in Denerim, if they hadn't already?_

Finally the gallows loomed over the crowd. Three ropes awaiting three necks. For the first time since last night Neria felt fear coil around her stomach.

To their left two lines of Inquisition soldiers made a pathway of snow to the door of the shack and Cullen, who still stood in vigil, vambraces shining in the morning light.

_Oh Maker, they still don't know..._

Above them, on the hastily erected stage, in full armour the colour of midnight, the flaming eye of emblazoned on his chest and fluttering on the flags high above his head, stood the Herald of Andraste. Easing doubts of whose name they were acting in.

_We would not have to kill him,_ Leliana had said.

Towards the front of the press she found the bard, arms crossed but none of the passion of last night on her soft, pale features. The press of people had parted for her too; she saw fearful looks thrown her friend's way as she sidled up to her shoulder."We could have stopped this," Leliana muttered so quietly that Neria had to lean in to hear.

"All rather ghastly," Dorian waved his hand over the row of ropes. "Hanging is so uncivilised. In Tevinter..."

"Not today, Sparkles," a gruff voice said from her elbow. "This is on all our heads." The dwarf gave her a half hearted grin. "So, you're the Hero huh? Thought you'd be taller..."

"An unoriginal quip," she sighed. "Everyone wants you to be some towering statue that shoots lightning out of your eyes..." she nodded to where the Herald paced. "Like him."

"That must be hard for you," the dwarf rubbed his stubbled chin. "Name's Varric," he grunted, but before he could say more a hush settled over the crowd.

 The Herald of Andraste held one gauntled hand high for silence and soon everything was still. A chill went up Neria's spine that had nothing to do with the everlasting winter of Haven. All eyes fell to the nobleman and he basked in their attention.

_We would not have to kill him._

"Inquisition soldiers, loyal mages, councillors, pilgrims," his voice boomed over their heads. "We are gathered here today to right a great injustice. All of us have felt the tremors of this rebellion, all of us have lost something; homes, loved ones, our place in this..." The Herald stopped, eyes drawn by a sudden movement outside the shack. A solider had slipped from the makeshift prison and was whispering urgently to Cullen, whose face was slowly becoming thunderous.

Neria looked away, back at the towering figure of the Herald. Still as stone, his eyes watched Cullen sheath his sword and leave his post, and so did a hundred others.

"Something's not right..." Leliana muttered standing on tiptoes to better see the Commander striding down the gangway. "What's going on?"

Court had kept Neria's tongue still on a thousand secrets she would once have spilled. She held her silence close. Kept a mask of calm over her rapidly beating heart. _He cannot prove anything._

Cullen reached the steps to the stage and leapt them two at a time. From here she could see his deep scowl, the white knuckles of his hands as he clasped the hilt of his sword. _Did he know?_ She followed his stride across the stage. He didn't glance her way.

"Well this should be interesting," Varric muttered over a hundred people rustling. Cullen leaned in close to the Herald, gloved hand hiding the words he whispered.

Words Neria did not need to hear to know the message.  


	18. Taking the Fall

**PART I: The Witch**

* * *

 

"I will ask you again, Commander," the Herald said, pacing across the war room, his hands gripping one another behind his back. "Did you fall asleep at your post?"

"I have kept vigil a hundred times before," Cullen said. "I did not falter."

"Then tell me how this happened..." the Herald sighed. "Tell me how three mages under your care disappeared without a trace."

"I wish I knew," Cullen shook his head. "Herald, let me mount a search party. I will ride out and find them..."

"Cassandra has taken the first regiment to do just that," the Herald grunted. "When they return I shall have answers."

She had been summoned to the war room almost immediately and she was not the only one. Solas lingered at her left, Dorian huffed to her right. Leliana sat behind the same pile of paperwork she had yesterday, implacable and untouchable. The dwarf who named himself Varric stood nervously at the door, fingering a crossbow at his back. There were others whose names she didn't know. A massive one-eyed Qunari was leant against the stone wall, examining his giant fingernails as though bored. A slight elven woman sat on a chair with the back to her front, leaning on her chin, eyes glazed over as though not in the room. 

Lady Monilyet was hastily documenting the Herald's questions and Cullen's answers, her quill scratching against the silence. Cullen himself stood, disbelief deep in the lines of his face, as though he'd aged ten years in a night. _If he puts two and two together then I am doomed._

The Herald's chainmail clanked as he turned his gaze on the cluster of mages. Neria refused to wither, meeting those disquieting orbs with a sullen stare of her own.

"Where were you last night?" the Herald asked, pointing at Neria.

"She was with both of us, Herald," Solas said. "We were together all night..."

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Talking," Neria cleared her throat. "I was telling them of the Blight."

Dorian seemed unfazed by the lie. "She speaks truly, Herald. I vouch for this."

"And what does the word of a mage even mean," the Herald hissed. "You could all be lying."

"You carried on the tale without me?" Varric muttered, sounding genuinely hurt. "Bah, you promised that you wouldn't..."

"You were there as well?" the Herald's steel gaze swooped over her shoulder to settle on the dwarf. Neria kept as still as possible, trying to keep her eyes from straying to the tense figure of Cullen.   

"Yeah, for the first part," Varric said. "Had to get some shut-eye..." She risked a glance, upright and proud he refused to meet her eye. _Should it hurt this much?_

"You missed all the juicy bits..." Dorian span, a wicked smile on his lips. "About the Hero and the King..."

"Enough!" the Herald boomed and resumed his pacing.

The scrape of his footsteps echoed off the barrelled ceiling. The clinking of his chainmail set her teeth on edge. He prowled like a wolf, a braid of raven whipping in his wake. "Did your scouts report anything?"      

"Nothing, Herald," Leliana replied. "It is as though they simply vanished."

_Of all the things she could have said._ Cullen's stoic stare shifted towards her, a twitch running up the side of his face. Neria held her breath, felt like her stomach was about to drop out of her world. In that instant she thought of the clammy hands of the first mage she'd freed, his fright and terror as they'd slipped through the wall and towards freedom. She thought of how the second, a young firebrand of a woman had argued before taking her hand, how she'd whispered her wish to die a martyr. And she thought of the third mage, barely a man, the bear hug he'd forced on her when she lead them to the secret path between the pines.

"Herald," Cullen muttered into the silence.

Neria let her breath out. Three lives for one. A deal she should be happy with. She met Cullen's eyes as the Herald's glare settled on the Commander.

The urge to run pressed tight against her chest. Her nails bit into the palm of her sweating hands.  Every second seemed to last an eternity and she saw the room with a startling clarity. The firm line of Cullen's mouth slowly opening. Leliana's shoulders slinking beneath her desk as though to grasp at something hidden. The way the candles flickered in the slight breeze from the cracks in the windows, throwing all of them into a strange, shivering, half-light.

"What is it, Commander?"  

"I..." Cullen's eyes shifted to her but did not linger. The Herald's mounting frustration hid the glance from his view. "I've just recalled..."

_This was it. This is how I'm going to die. At the word of a man I name friend._ Her throat clenched around her breath. Her mouth went dry as a desert. She bit the inside of her lip.

"I had to...relieve myself...as the bell tolled three..." he said, his voice as deadpan as his pale face. "I believed them secure enough behind bars and locks...This should be on my head."

_Maker's breath, no._ She felt her confession rattle the tip of her tongue.

"Be that as it may," Leliana said before she could speak, posture straightened. "The locks on the doors were not picked, Commander. However they escaped it was not by natural means."

"A mage helped them," the Herald grunted.

"Or...the mages helped themselves..." Leliana shrugged. "I have never seen a magic like it, however. To be able to walk through solid walls...impossible."

_She always was the best liar._

"Until recently we thought time travel impossible," Dorian said. "Perhaps one of these mages managed to develop the skill whilst in confinement..."

"Or it is possible they conferred with a spirit..." Solas said. "When a mages emotions run high it attracts..."

"Demons," the Herald hissed.

"All manner of beings..." Solas finished, shoulder's squared.

 "Did your Templar skills not sense this?" the Herald crossed his arms.

"I..." Cullen grimaced. "No Herald, I did not."

"Then it wasn't magic?"

Cullen's eyes were fixed before his feet. He looked so broken. She felt a stab of pain. _This is all my fault._ "Not necessarily, " he muttered. "May we speak in private Herald. There is something I need to inform you of."

_He's going to tell him. I have to run._

"Leave us," the Herald muttered. "All of you."

"But I must document the..." Josphine began.

"All of you!" he shouted.

* * *

Solas shuttered the windows as Dorian cast invisible wards across all the entrances. Neria's own muffling spells guttered before they'd begun. Her hands were shaking. Her pulse ringing in her ears. She had to flee. Had to be done with this place as she'd been done with so many others.

"Andraste's tits what was I thinking?"Varric grunted. "You did it, didn't you?...Come on truth now, Sparkler."

"I didn't have the slightest thing to do with this mess," Dorian muttered, indignant. "I was tucked up in bed the whole night through."

"Chuckles?" Varric lifted a hefty brow.

Solas shifted, clasping his hands behind his back but said nothing.

"Well that's a guilty look if ever I saw one," the dwarf sighed. "So what are we going do?"

"We have to run," Neria muttered, finally finding her tongue. "I have to run. Cullen is going to tell him..."

"Calm down a minute, Hero," Varric's rings glinted in the candle light as he waved a hand in her direction. "You helped him? And Curly is covering for you?"

"No," she hissed. "Cullen is innocent. It was me. I...I did it. And Cullen has put all the pieces together and he's going to tell the Herald and I have to leave..." she gasped a breath. "Right now."

"Wait," the dwarf barred the entry to her room, leaning against the doorframe, as casual as a cat."Back up a minute. You think Curly's a grass?"

"The Commander and I have a history and he will not take this lightly at all," she hissed. "Please Varric, get out of my way."

"Curly isn't telling the Herald what you think," Varric insisted. "So just..hold your horses a minute."

"What do you mean?" she hissed.

"Look..it's none of my business...I just overheard Curly and the Seeker speaking," Varric's face crumpled. "Ah, I really can't tell you, but just trust me on this."

"The Seeker...if she finds those mages..." she muttered.

"Bah...she won't if the mages are clever," Varric shrugged. "The Seeker she may be but the finder she's not."

"I can't trust to..."

"The front door ward has broken...someone is coming..." Dorian whispered frantically.

Neria snapped her mouth shut. Three heavy booms rocked the door in its frame. Before any of them could move a gruff voice spoke through the wood.

"The Herald wants all you mages to the breach. We're gonna close the bastard once and for all."


	19. Something Is Coming

She had never seen it up close like this. So vast. It thrummed with a power beyond many she had felt before. A strange magic, either so ancient it was no longer practiced or so new that its secrets were yet to be revealed, she couldn't say.

The mages along her line seemed unnerved by its essence. Some muttered prayers to the Maker, some cursed His name but most just stared up in awed silence. The few Templars that were among the Inquisition prowled nervously between the ranks. She caught a brief glimpse of Cullen, patrolling the row beneath her. She gritted her teeth and stepped back into the shadows.  

"What are the odds that we're all going to die?" Dorian muttered.

"I think the betting's more on the how than the when," she said, grateful for the interruption of her very Templar orientated thoughts.  

"I'd say being torn apart by demons was a pretty safe choice, I'll go with that."

"Pessimist," she muttered. "There's still the possibility we could be blown to smithereens."

"What a bracing thought..."

Solas stalked the platform below, slightly aside from the returned Seeker and the Herald, all bathed in the green glow of the rift. He raised his head slightly, unhooking his staff from his back and holding it aloft.

Neria had not used a staff for a long time, the one she borrowed felt clumsy in her hands, too large and bulky. She wielded it with care, holding it before her, mimicking Solas' actions and taking deep, controlled breaths. Dorian may have been jesting, but it was true enough that what they faced would be a tough challenge.

Beneath them the Herald's marked hand crackled like lightning. It seemed to suck the sound from the cavern. Neria's throat went dry, her mind reeling with the force of it.  

"Mages!" Solas' voice cut through the apprehension. "It is time. Focus past the Herald, allow him to draw from your will."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her stomach lurched upwards, on the wings of the surging power. Blood beat against her temples, her ears filled with its quickening pulse.

_Give me your being._

She faltered. Flung her eyes open. Gasped for breath. She glanced to her left to find lines of concentrating mages and to her right to find Cullen at the end of the line, watching her as she reeled forwards, clutching her staff to keep herself straight.

_I offer you power far beyond your ken. Give me your body, mortal. Let me in._

Saturated in promise, the voice tied cords around her neck, left her choking for air. She ached to give in; struggled with the force of it, a weight as heavy as stone. She closed her eyes, reaching desperately for the only thing that had worked before.

"Though all before me is shadow," she muttered, faltering. "Yet shall the Maker be my guide..."

_Do not sprout nonsense mortal! LET ME IN!_

"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond," she spluttered, feeling the weight shift.

_LET ME IN!_

 "For there is no darkness in the Maker' s Light," she took a deep breath. The shouting receding to the always present whispers. She clutched her staff. "And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Summoning energy from a deep pool within she slammed the butt of the oak shaft against the stone floor, driving her focus forward, beyond the Herald, beyond the breach.

The sound of a hundred other mages doing the same pounded the walls like a war drum.

She saw, in a bright flash, the shadow of the Herald bent double, almost swallowed by the light of the breach.

Then the room exploded.

* * *

 

"I was saving it for a special occasion..." Dorian stood at the head of the table. "It has survived the self same perils as I and come out the other end as handsomely intact."

"Enough talky, more drinky!" Sera slammed her empty cup down. "Open it, open it!"

"She's right, Sparkler," Varric grinned. "Ain't nothing worse than a cork tease."

"A cork tease?" Sera spluttered. "Oh..." apprehension dawned and she snorted. "I get it."

"Good things come to those who wait..." Dorian drawled, holding the unlabelled bottle aloft.

"No...stupid," Sera shook her head. "Arrows come to those who wait. And those that make me wait. Come on!"

Neria sat amongst their banter, already down a bottle of the bitter beer that was the tavern's speciality. It tasted like the floor of an alcoholic's latrine but she'd definitely had worse. It warmed a fire in her exhausted limbs but did little to lift her mood to the heights of those around her. Varric's words had been true. The Seeker returned empty handed, but it did little to console her now. It had been bad at the breach. Her troubled mind had difficulty cleaning the demon's voice from her memory.

"...an unsophisticated palate will not appreciate it's delicates."

"Who you calling unsophiss...un-so-fish-tic-ated?" Sera slurred. "I reckon I could be a toff as good as you. It's easy, right? Making little people feel small..."

"Oh come now, I didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities," Dorian rolled his eyes.

"Then open it!" she shouted.  

"Oh alright," Dorian slumped into his chair. "You're a terrible joy spoiler, you know?"

"Me?!" Serra scoffed. "I'm all about the joy, me. It's just you lot have strange ideas on what's fun, you know. Solemn speeches, not fun. Nearly hanging people, not fun. But toasting victories with wine blagged from a Nob, that's fun."

"Blagged?" Dorian almost spat the word. "What are you even saying, dear Sera?"

"Blagged..." her large eyes darted round for support. "You know, blagged..." she said it again, looking in shock at the blank faces. "It's like when you've got a friend, and that friend's got something you want and you sort of, take it off their hands."

"So it's stealing," Dorian said, eyes narrowing in her direction.

"Nah," she shook her head. "You're missing the part where I said friends..."

"So...you think it _more_ acceptable to steal from your friends...?"

"It's _not_ stealing," she insisted. "It's more...impressive."

Quick as a dart Sera's hand reached out and plucked the bottle from the mage's unsuspecting grip. "See... _that's_ blagging."

A cough from behind their table interrupted Dorian's red-faced rage. Neria's flickering grin fluttered as she followed the mages glare and then died as she saw Cullen standing, solemn faced, over their table.

"Neria? Can I...have a word?"

Her heart soared before her mind plucked the fast beating pump from its flight. The chasm between them had reopened like a wound but by the look on Cullen's face, it was not what he wished to discuss.

"Why don't you join us for a drink, Curly?" Varric gestured. "Take a load off your shoulders, relax for once in your life!"

"I cannot," he said softly. "Neria, if you'd please."

Any joy she'd felt at being alone with the handsome templar was squashed under those words. He indicated the door. Panic settled easily where joy had bloomed moments before. She thought to reach for the fade and disappear but Cullen was watching her closely. As exhausted as she was she doubted she could flee quicker than he could cleanse. There was nothing for it.

She stood.

The night was full of smoke and celebration. People danced around fires, wild at their first taste of victory. She felt a spectre among such fevered joy, dragging her boots as she followed Cullen's fur wrapped shoulders through the camp.

They went beyond the gate and Neria shivered as a cold wind lifted up her robe. He didn't turn as she faltered, her boots sliding deep into the snow. She trudged forward as he veered to the right, avoiding the encampment of his soldiers and heading towards the utter darkness of the pines.

For the first time in Haven she felt truly afraid. _Does he know? Can he sense it?_

Her hands shook, and not with the cold.

Halfway up the incline Cullen turned, barely visible, lit by the moon and it's reflection on the snow. She swallowed.

"Is there something I should know?" he asked, unhesitant, hand resting on the pommel of his great sword.

"What do you mean?" she looked him in the eye for as long as she could before returning her gaze to her feet. _Balls, I've gotten bad at this._

"You faltered when we closed the breach," Cullen said. "What happened?"

She gritted her teeth. "I got a little overwhelmed is all," she shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. "It's been a long time since I've been involved in such a ritual."

"If you're having problems I could spare one of the Templars to watch you..."

"What?" she hissed. "Tell me you didn't just say that..."

"I mean it, Neria," he sighed. "Should something happen I'd never forgive myself."

"I'm not endangering anyone," she crossed her arms. "You can stop worrying."

"Oh believe me I wish I could," he shook his head. "Where did you learn that magic you used in the tavern...the one you used to free the mages?"

She grimaced. "You know."

"I'm not a fool," he grunted.

"But you're not going to tell him..."

Cullen huffed a humourless laugh. "I know I ought to..." he shook his head. "The mages fired on us first, the Herald was well within his rights to imprison them. "

She gritted her teeth. "A child's excuse. We make peace with our enemies, Cullen."

"Believe me," he sighed. "I know."

The sounds of the distant celebrations were deadened by the snow thick pines. When Cullen shifted his feet the crunch of his boots over snow seemed impossibly loud. "Will you tell me how you came to wield such a power?"

She flung her arms around herself, suddenly chilled to the bone. "As I said...it was a gift."

"From a demon?" His face was unreadable, but a vein stood stark against his temple, betraying his unease.

"No," she shook her head and when he indicated for her to continue she sighed, breath steaming in the air. What choice did she have but the truth? She'd been stupid enough to follow him here in nothing but her robe, armed only with an eating dagger. If he didn't like what he heard...then she was at his mercy. She swallowed.

"It was a spirit...and elven spirit...he was the last of the Arcane Warriors and he taught me their art," she spluttered it out all at once. " Grey Wardens have a duty to do anything they can to end the blight..."

"Anything?" he crossed his arms.

"Anything." She agreed. "There were nine of us fighting the Blight, Cullen. Nine! One of those was my hound! We didn't have an army. We didn't have ambassadors and advisors. We had whatever we could get our hands on. If you honestly think me a danger because of it, then I'll do us both a favour and leave!"

"Neria..." he said her name softly, grasping her around the wrist before she could turn on her heel and stream off into the night. "I'm sorry, I...I was just...worried about you."

He didn't let her go. His leather gloves were soft against her bare skin. Snowflakes had settled among his curls and he blinked them back from his long lashes. She watched his eyes flutter over her face, his mouth part slightly. She was close enough to hear the sharp intake of breath he took before he said her name again.

A tugging at the back of her mind brought her to reality with a bump. She snatched her wrist free, whirled towards where the sensation guided her, an acute horror kindling in her chest.

"What's wrong?" he whispered. "Neria..."

The song blazed across her mind, a sweet melody she'd heard a thousand times. It caught in her chest...made it so she couldn't breathe. Her tainted blood sang back, unwittingly. Cullen grasped her elbow, helped her to stand.

"Something is coming," she whispered.


	20. For Your Lives! For All of Us!

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

"Forces approaching, to arms!" Cullen shouted over the already tolling bell as they sped through the gate.

There was no time for her to don her armour, no time for her to find a blade. Fear spread through the encampment like a sickness; people screamed, rushed to obey, stumbling half-drunk steps, gaping at the endless torches swarming down the valley and towards the gates.

Cullen hadn't let go of her wrist, he'd tugged her behind the walls before she could speed off to see what the strange song pertained. "Stay with me," he said, wrenching her around to put himself between her and the gates. "Don't do anything...stupid."

Before she could respond the Herald appeared at their side, flanked by Leliana, Josephine, and the giant Qunari whose name she'd heard was The Iron Bull. A caramel skinned mage and a bearded warrior she didn't recognise, trailed behind them.

"Cullen?!" Seeker Pentghast's voice was strained.

"One watchman reports...it's a massive force, the bulk over the mountains,"  he pointed towards the walls.

The Herald stalked towards the gate, slicing the air with the sound of his drawn steel.

"Under what banner?" the Ambassador hissed.

"None," Cullen said.

"None?!" Josphine's eyebrows sprung upwards

"There is a darkspawn among them," Neria cautioned as the Herald approached the gates. "A creature of great intelligence..."

"How do you know this?" The Herald grunted over his shoulder.

"Wardens can sense the blight," she shrugged.

He turned fully, eyes piercing over her shoulder. "Can they indeed?"

"Aye, Herald," a gruff voice spoke from behind her and the stocky, bearded man stepped forward. "I...sense it too."

Neria glared at him. Hardly the time to call the man out as a liar, so she bit down on her tongue. When everyone tuned their gaze back to the gates he gave her a sad smile. She sighed. Who was she to judge a man with secrets? She kept enough of her own.

"I suggest..." Cullen began, but before he could finish something banged against the gate.

Neria pierced the Veil, fire sprang over her hands. All around her the men and women of the Inquisition drew their weapons.

"I can't come in unless you open!" A voice pleaded, desperate.

The Herald glanced at the men clustered behind him. His blade, almost the length of Neria's leg, gleamed in the moonlight. He frowned, deep lines forming on his brow. "Open it," he grunted.

Cullen threw out his arm to stop her advancing. "Behind me," he said.

Feeling the heat of his hand on her hip made her realise just how vulnerable she was. It had been much too long since she'd fought like this. She eased along in his wake, hands flickering over the Veil, ready to fling spells over his shoulder.

"It's close now," she muttered as they edged down the steps. "Very close."

Cullen nodded, but said nothing. The gates creaked open.

A man in full plate armour stood, sword raised high. Cullen dropped his guard, the Herald lurched forward, but before either reached him the man dropped to his knees with a strangled cry. Blood pooled on the snow.

From behind the corpse a slight figure appeared, already sheathing his daggers, face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. When he titled his head upwards straw coloured hair poked from the shadows. He looked half a scarecrow. "I'm Cole," he said quickly. "I came to warn you...to help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know that..."

"Who are coming, boy?!" the Herald growled.

"The templars come to kill you," he said, almost dreamily.

"The templars!" Cullen made the boy flinch backwards. "Is this their response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?!"

Neria took a step backwards. The melody in her blood was thrumming now, a pure and beautiful song that made her shiver to the marrow of her bones. She cleared her throat, all eyes swivelled towards her. "He's here."

She pointed. Upon the rocks the silhouette of a man could be seen, though this was clearly no longer a man. A foot taller than the Templar that stood at his side, his ribs protruded from a chest caved in with a strange red crystal. Her blood thrummed with his song, his wailing corruption had a strength to that she had never felt before. It was...compelling. Neria swallowed.

"The red templars went to the elder one," Cole was saying, but she could barely hear a thing over the sibilant song. "You know him, he knows you. You took his mages..."

" _His_ mages?!" The Herald glowered, swinging the point of his sword towards where the darkspawn stood. "Cullen, give me a plan. Now."

"He's very angry that you took his mages," Cole continued, still staring up at the rock where the darkspawn loomed.

"Haven is no fortress," Cullen said. "If we are to survive this we'll need to control the battle. Get out there and hit this monster's force, use everything we can!"

The Herald's face was grim, but set. He nodded.

"Mages!" Cullen's voice shot into a commanding tone she had never heard him use before as he turned to the men and women spilling out of the gates behind them. He prowled along their line, sword drawn and flashing. "You have sanction to engage them. That is Samson," his blade pointed to the templar who stood at the darkspawn's side. "He will not make this easy. Inquisition! With the Herald, for your lives! For all of us!"


	21. Her Best Kept Secret

**Part I: The Witch**

* * *

 

Neria sucked air in and spat out frozen grit. She heaved herself to her feet in time to scorch the strange creature that had snuck past the lines. She grimaced as the stench of burnt flesh but did not falter. Arms of the thrumming red crystal tried to shield the monster's torso. As it's cries howled through the smoke-thick night Neria dug deeper, feeling the flames intensify.   

Soon the thing was no more than a husk of the strange singing crystal that encased it's body. She approached warily, drawing her eating knife in her left hand.

"Don't touch it," a voice grunted and Varric appeared at her elbow. "That's red lyrium..."

A dozen questions blazed through her mind but before she could speak a twanging drew her eyes to the sky. A volley of arrows flew towards them like deadly birds, blocking out the full moon.

"Shields up!" She shouted, extending her free hand upwards and through the veil. All around her mages followed orders and a blue light extended over their line.

"Are you sure that'll..." the dwarf  flinched away as the arrows pattered like rain against a window, dropping uselessly at their feet. "Andraste's flaming ass!"

"If their firing on us from that angle they've broken the left flank," she shouted over the mages clambering to engage the enemy. "I need to tell Cullen. Hold this gate, Varric."

"Me?!" she heard him exclaim but she'd already hoisted her robe into her hands and plummeted into the night.

Torches lit the death pit between the line of mages and soldiers. Most of the Templars who broke through the front were killed by the squadron of  spell flingers who held the high ground. She bent to retrieve a fallen longsword and felt a sudden pain in her side. She stopped. Her hands found ripped robe and a warm wetness. She was no healer. A spell fluttered and died on her finger tips. She swore and stumbled onwards, the sound of battle ringing ever closer.

She elbowed her way through the backline of eager recruits, jostling and shoving to get at the enemy. She shouted Cullen's name but it seemed useless over the din of steel and screams. Cullen was the type of man to lead from the front, and she was sure she would find him there. Pushed forwards by the surge of bodies she let herself be buffered towards the fight.

And then suddenly she was in the thick of it.

She ducked under a blow intended to crack her skull, caught the man's arm and sent a blast of electric through him that toppled him to her feet. He too was encased in the foul, singing crystal and it screamed in her mind as she ended his life with a well placed thrust.

She staggered. The wetness at her hip had turned to a torrent and sticky, tainted, powerful blood was pouring from her like a river. Her exhausted limbs longed for the respite it promised, the deep well of its will. She clutched her blade tighter, desperately suppressing the temptation.

Another of the red templars stepped over his dead comrade. The slit of his helm was focussed on her. She grunted, swallowed the sour spit in her mouth and heaved her blade into a mid guard.

"Huh, huh, huh," he guffawed, deep voice echoing over the battle din. He held his already dripping blade high.

It took all her energy to leap. All her remaining will to pierce the veil. She flew through the air, light trailing her form, blade held straight before her. She yelled something insensible as the point slid successfully into slit of his helm. The force of her blow toppled them over and, with a sickening crunch, ended the Templar's laughter and then his life.

The point of her blade had torn though flesh, skin and metal to bury itself deep in the snow. She grasped the hilt like a gruesome walking stick, arms burning with the effort of holding her up. She heard a strangled cry to her left, saw an Inquisition solider struck down, his blood flinging high over her head. A monstrous man stepped into his place, twice Neria's size in length and in girth. She struggled to her feet, tried to tug her sword free, but it was wedged firmly in the dead man's skull.

 _This is very bad_ , she thought before the man started swinging his mace in great arcs and she had to stop thinking to stumble backwards.     

"For the Inquisition!"

She looked up. On the slope to their left a line of torches flared into life. The hulking Templar turned at the rallying cry, mace still held aloft. An enterprising solider took this opportunity to bash the brute from behind with his shield. The giant lost his footing in the snow, fell to his knees with a thud that shook the earth and then promptly lost his head. Then, before Neria could even wipe the sweat from her brow, the charging soldiers crashed into the Templar's exposed flank.

Cullen found her afterwards, both of them coated in battle sweat and blood. She faltered as she saw him and he clasped her by both arms to keep her upright.

"They've broken through..." she muttered. "We need to retreat, behind the gates."

"Where are you hurt?"

Her hand was sticky and wet. With a gasp she pulled it away from the wound. Adrenaline had worn off and the deep gash from hip to belly button stung like a whip.

He hissed, pressing her hand back over the still weeping wound. "Keep pressure on it," he turned to his men. "Sound the retreat! Back to the walls! Save every soul you can!"

Cullen bent double and without ceremony threw her arm over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, as he tucked himself into her armpit.

"Saving your life," they took a slow lumbering step forward.

"I can walk just fine," she grunted, thought to elbow him off, to stop the hot flush creeping over the pain from her wound.

He ignored her, hand firmly about her waist as they trudged back through the death pits and up to the gate.  The line of mages that had been holding the high ground were nowhere in sight. Bodies, arrows, swords, shields, trampled tents, all littered the snow beneath the walls. Cullen's men hovered uncertainty.

He was about the order the gates opened when an almightily creak sounded to their right and all eyes spun towards it.

"It's the trebuchet!"Cullen said, gripping her closer.

They watched from their vantage as a boom reverberated across the valley. The torches swarming over the hills stopped, their distant bearer's confused. A flicker of movement drew her eyes to the valley looming above them and her heart leapt with hope as mountains of snow began their swift descent.

Cries, cheers, whoops of delight. All around soldiers embraced one another, exalted by their improbable victory. Cullen turned to her, a grin splitting his blood splattered face. She was sure her heart leapt into her throat at his breathy laugh, so near her lips. "Perhaps we'll survive this after all!"

She felt very much like throwing her other arm around him and kissing that handsome grin. She could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his torso pressed against her uninjured hip. "Neria," he raised an eyebrow. "Why are you looking at me like that? Are you going to faint?"

A tugging stopped her reply. A tugging at once familiar and impossible.  The strings of the blight wrenched her head upwards.

"NO!" she shouted. "Maker please, no!

"Neria...what's..." Cullen followed her gaze, words dying on his lips.

Black wings tore through the night sky. A great scaled head swung through the air and even from this distance she could make out it's glowing ruby eyes. It's roar spilt the night like an axe, her own cries of disbelief swallowed by its screech.

"An archdemon..." she whispered. "It's not..." she gripped his shoulder. "It can't be!"

"FALL BACK!" Cullen shouted, gesturing over her head to the walls. "All of you fall back!"

Neria couldn't move. Couldn't speak. She watched the herald of blight fly high overhead with an abject and utter terror. The death she had avoided at Denerim screeched through the sky, lighting the night with its blood red flame.

"We have to get to the Chantry, now," Cullen insisted.

She tried to untangle herself but he snatched her wrist and clamped it in his hand.

"What are you thinking?!" he hissed, trying to tug her along in his wake.

"I have to kill it," she said, her words sounding much more level than she felt. "I have to be the one..."

"Oh no you don't," he yanked her more firmly. "There are other heroes now, Neria..."

"You don't understand," she shook her head. "A Grey Warden has to kill an archdemon."

"Blackwall is out there," he insisted. The gates were open now, he tried to snatch her round the waist and herd her through. Her blood slick hands slipped free. She stumbled out of his reach.

"Blackwall is not a Warden," she shook her head. "Cullen...I'm sorry."

She pressed against the veil and it parted for her quickly. She scrambled backwards, a green haze descending in front of her eyes. Cullen reached out. Her whole body jarred as his hand went through her like her torso was no more than air. She gasped, reeled away from him, nearly tripped over her robe. Her wound tore  deeper. She righted herself in time to see Cullen taking up an all too familiar stance.

She swore as the cleansing propelled her backwards, a single syllable ripped from her lips as every ounce of will was pulled from her body. Blackness smoked across her vision.

She was unconscious before she hit the ground.


	22. After

**Part I: The Witch**

_"After the torchlight red on sweaty faces,_

_After the frosty silence in the garden,_

_After the agony in stony places,_

_The shouting and the crying."_

_-TS Eliot, The Wasteland._

* * *

She awoke to singing and feared the worst. She groped for the dagger she always slept with. When her hands found only soft bedroll and the singing didn't cease she tried to sit up.

Pain immediately sliced away that ambition. She thudded back to the bed, eyes flung open to see the roof of a makeshift tent. She took gasping breaths of frozen air, pressed her hand against her wound.

"I know it's terribly cheesy," a drawling voice whispered over the song. "But...there's something...hopeful about it."

"What happened?" she said through gritted teeth as the singing ceased. Cheers broke through the night and she relaxed a little. Her wild images of being surrounded by darkspawn were simply that, crazed dreams echoing into consciousness.

"Oh, a darkspawn magister by the name of Corypheus destroyed Haven and wants to take over the world," Dorian yawned. "He claims to have been one of the first to breech the Golden City, he told the Herald the seat of the Maker was empty; got everyone a bit riled up actually," he sighed."...Oh, and he probably killed the Divine and is in control of an archdemon."

 Neria groaned, not entirely sure whether to believe the Tevinter and certain she didn't want to.

"Somehow we all appear to be alive," Dorian continued. "Well, except Rodrick..." he paused, she heard him shift, uncomfortable. "Solas had you stitched up in a jiffy...nasty wound that."

She grunted. "Where are we?"

"Nobody quite knows...probably a good thing, yes? If we don't know where we are neither does this Corypheus..."

"You weren't joking...." she whispered. "Alright..." she hissed. "You need to help me up."

"I am doing no such thing..."

"I need to speak to the Herald..."she hissed.

"You and everyone else in camp," Dorian cut across her. "Solas gave me strict instructions. You are staying right there until morning. Even if I have to tie you up myself."

"At least..." she sighed. "Help me sit."

He did, awkward and time consuming as that was. The usually aloof mage showed a compassion and patience that she did not expect as he helped her shuffle backwards and lean against the headboard. Even that effort left her gasping for air, weak as a newborn pup.

She pulled the fur blankets higher. Someone had removed her blood soaked robe and dressed her in an overlarge shirt and thick woollen breeches, slung low so not to press her wound. She could still smell the blood and sweat over the scent of the linen.

"Courtesy of the Commander," Dorian nodded at the shirt. "He carried you here, you know."

"He what?!" she said before spluttering into a coughing fit that strained at her stitches.

Dorian thumped her on the back. "Oh, yes...it was all dreadfully romantic..."

"You  missed the part where he cleansed me and knocked me unconscious,"  she hissed and he raised a dark eyebrow, hand not leaving her back.

"Ah..." Dorian muttered. "May I ask why?"

"Does he need a reason?" she grunted, her anger doing nothing for the pain. She tried to let it go but failure had a way of grabbing hold of her and squeezing tight. _And to think I almost kissed him!_

He leaned in close."So I am to take it you do not return the Commander's...feelings?" he whispered conspiratorially.

"Unless said feelings are pain and rage ..." she muttered, grimacing. "Maker...how is this what we're talking about...?!"

"I see it now," Dorian kept his voice low, but no less dramatic. "A pair of star-crossed lovers, torn apart by war and duty..."

"I'm not listening to you," she hissed, a red flush creeping up her neck. " Shut up."

Dorian leaned in close enough that she could see the individual hairs of his moustache twitching in the light of the braziers. His tongue darted over his lips but before he could open his mouth to speak, a voice cut across him.

"What are you two whispering about?"

Dorian swivelled to face the open entrance of the tent. Leliana stood watching them, hands behind her back, a look of pure innocence on her delicate features.

"Andraste's tits, woman," Dorian's hand left her back as though she'd burnt him. "After the night we've had better to not sneak up on a man, yes?"

"I was simply intrigued," the bard floated to the foot of Neria's sick bed, a dry smile on her generous lips. "I heard the word 'lovers'... a dangerous word, no?"

"I errr..." Dorian sprung to his feet. "Do you know what, I utterly forgot I have to..." he shuffled from the tent, gaze not leaving Leliana, like a mouse fleeing the presence of a temporarily clement cat. "Er...go..." he finished lamely and sped off into the night.

 Leliana gave Neria that cold sister look she reserved especially for when the mage had done something particularly offensive. "Please tell me you're not involved with him..."

"You've the wrong end of a rather stupid and pointless stick," Neria sighed, settling back among the cushions. "He told me what happened...are you..."

"Alright?" Leliana finished, slumping into Dorian's hastily vacated seat. "How can anything ever be alright again? Corypheus...I heard him...The Maker's seat was...empty."

Neria took a deep breath, she was hardly one to give spiritual guidance, her own guttering faith long sacrificed to the perils of this world. That she recognised the strength in the Chant did not mean she held it true. That was not what her friend needed to hear however.

"Why would you believe him over the Chantry?" she said, eventually. "An ancient corrupted magister...he clearly intends to shake your faith."

"Then it has worked," she shook her head. "Blood is all He demands of late. Sacrifice, duty, death...how can this be the life He intends for his faithful? How can I keep my faith amongst so much chaos..?"

"Leli," she struggled to reach for her friends hand, ignoring the pain splitting up her side. "We burden ourselves with struggle so others may not have to. Call it divine providence, call it a curse if you must, but what's important is that we are here and that we will fight...whatever comes."

Leliana squeezed her hand, her eyes suddenly alive with a warmth that had been so absent since Neria  returned. "So you'll stay?"

Neria smiled."I suppose I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a massive thank you to all of you who have supported this fic so far! You're all awesome. We're at the end of part one now, and as such we're going to shift perspective. Hope you all continue to enjoy.


	23. She Is Your Darkness

 

**PART II: The Lion**

_"She is like a cat in the dark and then she is your darkness."_

_Fleetwood Mac, Rhiannon, The Dance_

 

* * *

 

"It's no good," he took another deep gasp of the frozen air. "It's not budging..."

"Try harder," the Herald grunted next to him. "This is the last wagon, we can't afford to lose it."

"Even if you did right the wagon, my dear," Vivenne drawled from some distance away. "The beast is starved and half dead, you cannot truly expect it to continue,"

"Can't you waggle your fingers and make it all better?" the Herald grunted, the cords standing stark against his stubbled neck.

"Maxwell, dear, you'll give yourself a hernia," she sighed. "And no, I cannot waggle my fingers and make it all better. I am preserving my will should we come under attack."

"Ah, the lady's right," Bull spat, waving a huge hand at the wagon in disgust. "The wheel arch is bust anyway...it's a heap of  rattling crap."

"Did any carpenters survive Haven?" Cullen asked, massaging the back of his constantly aching neck. "We could fell a pine...fix it up."

"And how long will that take, Commander?" Vivienne shot him that filthy look, the one she always seemed to reserve just for him. "Shall we all freeze whilst your carpenter works or perhaps you'd prefer us to starve."

"Maker's breath it was just a suggestion!" Cullen sighed, not a little sick of the haughty mage.

"Well I counter your suggestion with a much more logical one," she crossed her arms. "We load the beast up with whatever it can carry and distribute the rest among the men."

"My soldiers you mean?" Cullen retorted. "Are they not carrying enough of your wardrobe already?"

"Enough!" the Herald shouted. "I shall not have you at each other's throats !"

Cullen crossed his arms. Perhaps the wardrobe jibe had been a step too far but he refused to be beaten down by that accursed woman. He had enough on his plate without her adding to the heap.

"Vivenne is right," the Herald said. "Solas informs me we are only two days away, the men will hold up."

Well, that was that. No point in arguing with the Herald, might as well argue with the mountains. "I will give them their orders."

 He stormed towards the cave where many of the Inquisition had taken shelter. Four days their rag-tag group had trudged through the mountain passes. The Herald would have marched them through the night if they hadn't unanimously protested. The days were difficult enough, even hardened soldiers collapsed after a ten hour trek in the thin air with no discernible path to tread. They'd already lost men to the Herald's demanding pace; Deklan, a Marcher who'd been with him since Kirkwall hadn't woken after the first day, Ellis had gone a day later to the fever of infection, and that was making nothing of the death toll at Haven. But Maxwell Trevelyan was as unyielding as iron. And the Inquisition needed a firm hand.

Explaining this to weary soldiers was not a task he relished. He waited until first regiment finished the stew they were boiling in the smoke filled cavern. Men are less likely to complain on a full stomach. At least, that was his experience.

"I see the Herald does not carry a pack," Jean grunted, putting his bowl down in disgust "Is His Worship beyond the physical realm now?"

"As you well know the Herald is scouting to the north," Cullen glared at the Orelesian recruit. "It would only be a cumbrance..."

"Oh and it won't for us?" Jean crossed his arms. "We are already carrying our weights in essentials...why should we have to take more?"

There were small pockets of descent. Cullen waited for them to die down. "We all carry our burdens, it is unfortunate that ours are heavier than some. But do not lose sight. In two days time I am assured we will arrive at our destination."

"Where ever that might be," Jean muttered.

"What was that Jean?" Corporal Jenkins, a stocky man who looked built of the mountains themselves, slowly got to his feet. "It sure is kind of you to offer to do the squads washing for a week..."

"That's not what I said!"

"It's what I heard," Jenkins grunted. "You want to whine worse than a woman then you get woman's work."

"Careful," Elsa warned, first regiment's only female soldier. "If you think I'm ever washing your dirty kecks, Corporal, you've another think coming."

"Alright!" Cullen held his hand up for silence as whispers began to spread across the plateau. "Finish eating then make your way to the wagon. Complaints will earn you more packs."

Jean scoffed, but a fiery look from his Corporal tied his tongue around itself.

"Good," Cullen sighed. "Now, where are the second?"

"Still toiling up the blasted rock face, Serrah," Jenkins said. "Lieutenant's with 'em, helping the wounded. Third are in the next cave along though," he slapped his hand against his thigh. "Right, you sorry bastards," he shouted. "Let's be having you."

There were sighs and moans and grumbles and Cullen couldn't help but feel their pain. None of them wanted to leave the cosy plateau for the biting wilderness. There were wistful glances at the fire as they shouldered their packs. The Corporal was ready to give the order to move out when a commotion from the entranceway stole his words.

"You should have just left me!" a female voice shouted, clearly in pain. Cullen's palms went suddenly sweaty, his heart beat a triple dance against his ribcage.

"Leave you?" A clipped voice answered. "Ungrateful swine, if I hadn't plucked you from your frozen bed you'd be an icicle by now!"

"Just...let me down here," she grunted. There was a clank of metal on rock. "Arrgh!"

The twenty nine men and one woman of first regiment were already peaking over the edge of the outcrop and into the darkness below, nudging each other and smirking. Cullen had to lever his way through the press and down the torch lined slope before he could see Dorian, head thrown back, hands on his hips, taking deep lung-fulls of air.

"You being the hero I expected more saving and less dying," he said to the woman at his feet.

"Arse!" she spat. "Utter...arse."

"Your pain is not improving your eloquence," Dorian said as Cullen reached his side. "Ah, Commander, how superb of you to join us. Our little hero is in need of a wagon."

Even in the soft light of the fire Cullen could see the sheen of sweat coating Neria's face. Curls of her usually auburn hair were stained black, plastered to her cheeks. Her breath came in worrying rasps, made worse by her efforts to sit.

"Just...leave me here," she panted. "I..." she broke off, losing the struggle and falling on her back with a cry.

"Right," Dorian sighed. "Let's get your shirt off and have a look at it then..."

Cullen's guts curled around themselves and squeezed. From the plateau above someone wolf whistled. He threw a dirty look into the darkness.

"All of you, out!" he shouted.

Dorian was paying no heed however and already knelt at her side, hands halfway down the buttons on what Cullen belated recalled was _his_ shirt.

He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but the white band of cotton pressing her breasts into a valley. _Maker, she's an injured woman!_ he scolded himself, _have some respect._

"Now there's a sight to warm an old man's heart," Jenkins voice sniggered from above. "Best part of having women in the army."

Neria hissed before Cullen could begin his own reprimand. Dorian pushed her gently back to the floor.

"Now, now," he said. "This is not the time for modesty. Though some privacy would be appreciated, Commander."

A flush crept up Cullen's neck. Glad of the ruddy glow of the fire, he turned to his men. "Move out this instant or you'll be digging latrines for a month!"

"Aye, lads. Tis enough gawping," Jenkins bellowed. "Out, the lot of you."

Cullen watched them as they marched towards cave mouth, their movement echoing up the caverns. Under his glare they moved swiftly.

"It's bloody infected Neria," Dorian said in the manner of a nurse chiding an unruly infant. "What am I supposed to do about that? Solas is off gallivanting in the wilderness. I am no healer!"

"Leave...me," she said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, do be quiet," he hissed. "Repeating it won't make it happen."

"There's a surgeon in third regiment, they're just up the caves," Cullen said. "I'll get him."

"Be quick, Commander," Dorian gave him a pensive look.


	24. Touch Me with Fire

**Part II: The Lion**

* * *

 

Neria swore like a veteran trooper. He'd spent enough time around men at arms to hear the worst curses on the Maker's green earth, but the common foot soldier lacked the creativity of the  clearly distressed mage. Cullen hovered, stuck somewhere between duty and worry.

"It's no good, Ser," Renna, third regiment's healer looked up from where he was crouched. "I'll have to use the brand on it. Someone is gonna have to hold her still."

"Like the void you are!" Neria tried to shuffle away and fell into a sad heap. "Sodding nug humpers!"

"Might it be wise to simply...knock her out?" Dorian asked.

"You just try it you 'Vint bast..."

"Alright, alright," Dorian rolled his eyes. "You are honestly impossible."

"Go and get your things," Cullen muttered to Renna as the elven mage resumed her hostilities. The surgeon nodded, grim faced.

"Might be best we do knock her out..." he whispered, as they stepped away. "The pain..."

"She'll endure," he said. "Go."

Neria was trying to elbow crawl her way out. Dorian was looming over her. Both of them were shouting; their voices catching on the sharp rocks of the cave.

"Dorian!" he pulled the man backwards. "Perhaps you could stoke a fire...as hot as you can; as near as you can."

"Fine," the proud mage sniffed. "You deal with her, I've had my ear's filled."

Cullen forced himself to look at her. It had never been easy. When he'd first met her it had been pure boyhood awe that made even snatched glances feel like he was looking at the sun. Over the years he was assigned to her in the tower, he'd become comfortable with watching when she wasn't watching, but whenever she caught him at it felt like he'd boil alive in his armour. Now, as she lay desperately trying to lean back on her elbow, face contorted in pain and anger, it was guilt that made him look away.

She said nothing as he crouched by her side. He stared at the dirt floor. He could hear her breaths come faster. He could smell the sourness of her wound.

"Have you had the brand before?" he said it quietly, calmly, trying to soothe her wild abrasiveness.

"What... do... you... care..?"

"Neria..." he chided. "I'm sorry for what I did at Haven..."

"You better be," she grunted. "You stopped a Warden in the line of duty." She made a choking sound, biting down on her pain. There was so much tension in her slight frame like every second was suppressed agony.

"You were in no state to fight a dragon," he smiled, though the humour did not reach his heart. "It was for you own good."

"Screw your platitudes..."

"And now you'll live to regain your strength and kill it."

She threw him a look of disdain but said nothing. 

 "Now, have you had the brand before?" he repeated.

"I'm not afraid..."

"If you'd prefer I'll go and find Solas..."

"No fear I'll become an abomination?" she grunted.

And then it struck him. She was scared. He could see it in the wild way her eyes moved. The quivering of her lower lip, her fingers raking the dirt floor. "Do you...want me to stay..in case?" 

He swallowed. It seemed a thousand years since he'd watched her Harrowing but the agony was still the same. _Could I do it? Could I really...?_ He didn't want to know the answer.

Her face was taught. She looked away. The nod was almost imperceptible. A tear rolled down her cheek. He took a deep breath.   

"Commander," Renna returned, breathless. "Third regiment are moving out...the Herald says you're to come immediately."

"Did you tell him the situation here?" Cullen said, exasperated.

"Pardon my say so, Commander," the man folded out the gruesome toolkit of his trade on a stone nearest the fire. "But I couldn't get a word in edge ways, they're  all in some flap about a wagon."

"Still!" Cullen gasped. "Dorian will you go to the Herald and..."

"I'm not your messenger boy!" the mage hissed.

"Dorian! Now is not the time to test me," Cullen growled. "Go to the Herald and tell him...whatever you have to! Buy us some time."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Dorian brushed down his robe as he stood. "Fine, I shall be a fabulous distraction." He leant down to Neria, one finger pointed in accusation. "Don't you die on me, do you hear? I'll drag you back through the fade if I have to." And before she could respond he'd swept from the cave.

"How long will this take?" he asked Renna, the fear of disobedience settling in now his anger dimmed.

"By looks of that wound, perhaps half hour," Renna muttered, his long fingers hovering over the grim flesh at Neria's hip. "If I'm to be frank, Ser..." he broke off, waiting for permission. Cullen nodded. The man blew out a sigh. "She ain't gonna want to be moved much after..."

"I'm...right...here."

"Pardon me miss," Renna continued. "I only speak the truth."

Cullen's hand went instinctively to his neck. The Herald's wrath was already well-documented but what else could he do but defy the man? Neria was...too important to too many people to be left behind.

"Then we better do this quickly."

* * *

Cullen couldn't say what was worse. For the first ten minutes Neria remained conscious; screams, whimpers, pleading, all muffled by the length of leather between her teeth to stop her biting through her tongue. Her eyes bulged and she jerked against him and the stench of burnt flesh wrinkled his nostrils. He'd seen the brand used before, to burn out infection, but never this close. He held her firm, whispered reassurances she couldn't hear. Ten minutes in she went limp.

He'd breathed a sigh of relief, at first. Thinking it better that she didn't remember. Then, as the brand brushed her wound again and her prone form didn't so much as twitch, fear found him reaching for her pulse. It beat an agitated rhythm against his fingers, so fast it did nothing to halt his concern.

"Touch me with fire, that I might be cleansed," he muttered, pressing his hand against her sweat soaked brow. "Tell me I have sung to Your approval. For You are the fire at the heart of the world. And comfort is only Yours to give."

He watched her closely, waiting and fearing the worst. Watched the sharp way her chest surged and stilled, watched a droplet of sweat form at her brow and run like a tear down her cheek, he watched her lips move as though trying to speak but no matter how close he leaned he couldn't make out the words.

"It's done," Renna gasped, an eternity later. "Hold her whilst I bandage."

She was fire embodied. He could feel it through his armour, his gambeson. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he eased her into a sitting position. Renna had smeared an elfroot concoction over the wound but the vinegary scent did nothing to hide the burnt flesh stench. He gently removed the leather from between her lips and lay her carefully down.

"Let her sleep it off," Renna said. "She's strong, despite her size."

He bunched the leather in his fists, still wet with her spit. "It's in the Maker's hands now."

"Commander!"

Cullen span. _Maker, give me respite._ The Herald of Andraste stood, a hulking silhouette in the arch of the cave mouth.

"Your Worship," he bowed his head. "I was just..."

"Disobeying a direct order?" The Herald hissed. "What in the void were you thinking, man?"

"The Hero of Ferelden was injured, Serrah," he stood to attention. _Suck up whilst you can_. "Renna advised administering a brand as soon as possible and I thought it prudent a Templar should be present." It wasn't entirely a lie.

"I see..." this seemed to calm the Herald. "A wise decision in the circumstances, though why you bothered doctoring her I can't imagine."

"She's a political ally," Cullen's voice was remarkably level considering the sudden desire he had to punch the man. _He's had a hard time, don't do anything stupid._ "She..."

" _Was_ the King's whore," the Herald said. "He dropped her several years back. Thus making her...a useless ally."

Cullen had heard the rumours, of course, they had a way of fluttering across the Waking Sea and even to a Templar's ears. For a long time he'd refused to believe that Neria would be any man's mistress. He couldn't imagine his stubborn mage playing second fiddle to another woman, even a Queen. Still couldn't...in fact.

"The people of Ferelden remember her deeds," Cullen said, trying not to make it sound like a threat. "If they heard we left her to die we would lose support, even among our own men."

"I cannot halt our progress for one mage," the Herald shook his head. "She comes or she stays but _you_ , Commander have a duty to the Inquisition."

Renna stepped forward, shoulders slumped, head bowed. "If your worship would permit me to speak..."

"No," the Herald snapped. "I've made your options quiet clear. Do not make me name you deserters!"

Cullen swallowed. The Herald was right. There was only one choice.


	25. Rise, Inquisitor

**PART II: The Lion**

* * *

 

They fashioned a stretcher from planks of the wagon bound together with rope. He doubted she was comfortable, swaying between two people like a babe in a careless mother's grip. They took turns in taking her weight. Renna had quickly spilled her identity to those who didn't know and even Cullen was surprised by the amount of men who came forward to offer their help. Fereldens all, men who remembered the Blight.

Corporal Jenkins came to him, helm in hand, looking abashed in a way Cullen had never seen before. "I err...didn't realise who's tits I was leering at," he scratched his beard with his free hand. "I should've shown...more respect."

"Perhaps it will teach you to be more mannered around strangers," Cullen couldn't help but smile.

"Aye, well..." Jenkins grunted. "I reckon I'll take my turn to carry...by way as an apology, like."

"Go ahead," Dorian gasped. "You can take my end, I've hauled the thankless wretch over half these bloody mountains."

It had long gone dark before they stopped to camp. The Herald had the knack for finding a good spot and this night was no different, they nestled in a valley between two great craggy cliffs. Cullen spent hours shuffling people into the right place, helping the men to stake the perimeter, cautious as ever after Haven.

Cassandra found him as he'd just sat down for the first time that day, stew in one hand, half a stale roll in the other. He followed her, still chewing, between the lines of men and tents, wondering if he'd ever get some rest.

Leliana and Josephine were already waiting. Their spymaster wore a strange smile, pacing the ten or so strides across the pavilion tent like a cat in thrill of the hunt. Josephine was taking worried glances at the Orlesian, her writing board as firmly in place as his sword

Cassandra cleared her throat. "As you are all well aware the Inquisition is desperately in need of a leader...at this point I believe the discussion to be moot; there is only one choice."

"Oh, do you think so?" Leliana's fixed smile didn't reach her eyes. Cullen suppressed a shudder, he liked the woman well enough but when she had a plan there was something about her that reminded him keenly of the giant adders he used to find on the farm as a boy. "I am not entirely convinced it is as simple..."

"The Herald  is practically leading the Inquisition already," Cassandra shifted her weight, ready to battle with words. "I know what you're going to say, Leliana, and I think..."

 "She has much more experience, she's older, wiser..." Leliana stood her ground. "She has allies from here to Antiva..."

"Be that as it may," Cassandra interrupted. "The Herald has the mark, he faced down a dragon, was willing to sacrifice himself..."

"And that mage he killed?" Leliana's false smile quickly fled to a snarl. "You approve of that...?"

"He did what had to be done," Cassandra's scowl went deep. "What none of us were willing to do."

Leliana narrowed her eyes, a look that would've sent most men running for cover. Cassandra met it without even a flinch.

"Please," Josephine stepped between them, her delicate features already strained by their hard flight from Haven. "Let us not fight..."

"Then let us vote," Leliana's gaze settled on Cullen and he awkwardly lowered the stale roll that was halfway to his mouth. His empty stomach did a little flip of anxiety. "Commander, do you think that the Herald is a good man?"

"Well...I...er..."

"That's not the question," Cassandra butted in before he could even wrap his mind around the answer. "What matters is he's the right man."

"The right man?" Leliana hissed. "If he is not good then he is _not_ right..."

"Good is subjective, right is not," the line of Cassandra's jaw hardened. "You are with me, aren't you Commander?"

All eyes fell on him. He coughed. "I...well..."

"The Herald would have left her to die," Leliana's steely gaze swung back to Cassandra. "What's stopping him from killing anyone of us?"

"He has to protect the group , Leliana," Cassandra squared up to the spymaster. " For the greater good, you of all people should understand that!"

"I would never leave a man I could save," Leliana said. "Do not compare me to him!"

"Ladies," Josephine's voice cracked. "Let us please be civil..."

"This is a mad notion," Cassandra shook her head. "I vote for the Herald."

"And I vote for the Hero," Leliana held the Seeker's scowl with one of her own. "Josie?" she hissed.

The woman hesitated.  Leliana's head whipped round and Josie flinched under her stare. "Please... do not take this personally. But I do agree that the Herald has done much for our cause and..."

"Commander?" Leliana's glare was all for him now and he felt like a plant withering under the rays of the sun.

"Wait," he shook his head, finally putting down his dinner, long gone cold. "Let me...get this straight. You want Neria to lead us?"

"She is the better choice...she's the better person," Leliana said. "You know this, yes?"

"Well..." he paused.

"What do our men think, Commander?" Leliana said, relentless as a storm. "I've reports that they drew up a rota for carrying her..."

"That's true but..."

"But nothing," Leliana cut across him. "If our soldiers are behind the Hero then we must be as well," her voice went a little softer. "It was always the plan, the Divine's plan, find the Hero or the Champion, make them lead..."

"Things have changed in a way the Most Holy could not have foreseen," Cassandra said. "Andraste guides us now."

"If I may," Cullen cut across Leliana, sure that if he didn't say this now he'd never get the chance. The three woman whirled on him. "I don't think Neria would want to lead us..."

"This is not about want," Leliana growled. "She has a duty..."

"She will flee if you ask this of her," Cullen said, not knowing where the thought came from but as soon as he said it he felt it to be right. "She...has her own mission."

"There we are, three to one, Leliana," Cassandra  sighed, clearly relieved. "We shall offer the sword of office to the Herald when we reach...where ever it is we are going."

"You have condemned us to be led by a monster," Leliana whispered. He winced at her words, at the pain so fresh behind them. "I hope you're happy."

"Leliana..." but Cassandra was too late, their spymaster had already sunk into the shadows of the night.

"Oh no," Josphine sighed. "I really do not like it when she's angry..."

"Leave her," the Seeker growled. "She'll come around."

Cullen prayed it was so.


	26. Necessary Evil

**PART II: The Lion**

_"Hi, I'm fine, you're saying nothing but your tongue is getting blacker all the time_

_It's a measurable feeling, seven on a scale from dead to breathing."_

_(Necessary Evil, The Dresden Dolls, Yes Virginia)_

 

* * *

 

"Solas informs me this shall be our last night on the road."

The Herald of Andraste was not one for pointless greetings. Cullen had been too deep in thought to hear him approach through the camp. Unable to sleep and wanting to be useful he'd dismissed a shivering Fernando, a Corporal of the fifth regiment from the sunnier planes of Antiva, and taken his lonely post for himself.

"The men will be glad to hear it," he grunted, cupping his gloved hands close to the brazier. "It has been a difficult journey."

"Indeed."

The two men stood in the silence of the snow, the occasional mutterings from the camp behind but otherwise all was still. Cullen's thoughts drifted to the man who would be their leader. He knew little of Maxwell Trevelyan, the youngest child of a Marcher noble line. A man destined to shape the world with the strength of his sword arm and the power of his name.

"How are you feeling?"

Cullen blinked. Certain he'd misheard. When he snuck a glance to his left the Herald was gazing into the distance, as stoic as the stony rocks he observed. "Haven was difficult."

You wouldn't have thought it so by the flat tone of his voice. Cullen hesitated, unsure of how to take such a confession. "It was for all of us."

It hit Cullen for the first time that the man they named Herald of Andraste, the man who would lead the Inquisition, the man who had been so quick to throw himself into the face of certain death, was just that, a man. Since being freed Maxwell Trevelyan had been more of a statue; cold, stubborn, unwavering, stone-like in his beliefs.

"How do you do it, Cullen?" the man whispered, something cracking in his voice.

"What do you mean?" he asked, taken aback at the use of his name.

"Cassandra told me a little of your past," the Herald muttered. "You were Knight Captain when Kirkwall fell."

It was not a question but the pause seemed to demand an answer. "I was."

"You must have seen the worst of what magic can do."

Cullen sighed. "I did." Some nights he could still smell the blood, the smoke, the corruption.

"And yet," the Herald turned to face him with that penetrating gaze that bored right to the soul. "You risked your life to save a mage?" It didn't sound like a reprimand. He sounded curious. "Why?"

"Once, I would not have," he said. "After Kirkwall...well. It made me realise things are never as black and white as we'd like them to be."

"Your meaning?"

Cullen reached for his neck. It was not an easy thing to discuss at the best of times, let alone with a man as compassionate as a hurricane. "The Order was at fault as much as the mages."

The Herald grunted. "It was not the Templars that blew up the Chantry..."

"Anders was a sick man," Cullen shook his head and lowered his voice. "Had the Chantry been a place he could turn to, rather a place that he ran from, we could have spotted the danger sooner."

"You would have us care for them?"  the Herald asked, incredulity seeping into his words. "Despite everything they've done..."

"I know it is no easy thing to forgive," Cullen muttered. "But this war cannot continue, it has taken the lives of too many innocents."

"So you would give into the demands of these...agents of terror. Give them freedom?" the Herald's voice was gaining angry ground.

"You misunderstand," Cullen was quick to placate him. "I agree that the Circles must be restored. It is the relationship between templars and mages that needs to change."

"Vivienne seems to think the Chantry did fine work..."

"Excuse my saying so, Herald, but Vivienne has lived most her life in the comfort of  the Orlesian court," Cullen couldn't keep the disdain from his voice. "She was hardly on the front line of the dispute."

"You truly dislike nobles...don't you?" _Maker was he...smiling._ In the flickering half-light it was a bizarre sight, like some leering mask fastened to a face made for frowns.

"I do not mean to offend..."

"Oh, Maker, no," the Herald waved a massive hand over his concerns. "The majority of us are insufferable prigs, prancing around like they're born to rule without ever having the stomach to do so."

"It was like that in the Order," Cullen muttered, wondering at the glimmers of kinship he found with such a man. "So often I'd see people promoted for blood rather than merit."

"You did well then, to climb such a ladder,"

Cullen hesitated, curling and straightening his toes inside his boots to stop the cold. "I..don't see it like that." He blew into his hands. "I was the only Templar to survive Kinloch Hold." The bitterness was plain in his words. "That is why I was sent to Kirkwall. It is why I was promoted."

"On merit," Maxwell said. "For your achievements."

Cullen didn't think it a thing to be proud of, surviving when countless others had died. It was a weight he would carry with him until the end of his days, he was sure. He said nothing. Staring into the cloudless melancholy night, trying not to think on the past and finding himself irrevocably drawn in, like a moth to a flame.

"The thing we spoke about at Haven," the Herald said, as softly as such a voice could be.

"It is under control," Cullen snapped a little too quickly. "I am fine."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "As you say." 


	27. Drink and Leave the World Unseen

**PART II: The Lion**

_With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,_

_And purple-stained mouth;_

_That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,_

_And with thee fade away into the forest dim._

 

_(Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats)_

* * *

 

Its ground high and hostile. He was there when the mages cleared the last of the rubble from the open portcullis; he heard the cheers of men who'd spent the last week grumbling and it gladdened his heart immeasurably.

He was also there when they named Maxwell Trevelyan the Inquisitor. He heard few complaints that day as the Herald raised the greatsword of office high and proclaimed he would fight for faith and order. He stood among the cheering crowd, his own grin reflected in every face he saw.  And in that moment he was certain that divine providence had brought them so far, with so few lost to the Maker's side. 

The work was never done and a thousand tasks were required of him. He spent days in a flurry of reports, over-seeing reconstruction, consulting with his colleagues, figuring out routes to the lands beneath them. By the time dawn found him on their fifth day he had only snatched a few hours sleep. Exhaustion was the least of his worries.

The word blazed across his mind a thousand times a day and each time he threw himself harder into work. Found distraction where ever he could. His hands were blistered with moving boulders, his arms ached from long hours climbing scaffolds, his fingernails were thick with dirt and grit. And yet he found no relief from the constant ache, the buzzing in the back of his mind, that need as ingrained in him as the need to breathe.

It was on the sixth day, whilst unpacking the few things he still owned into his new office, that he found the last philter. He gripped the vial, twirled it round in his hands. He didn't know why he even had it but he felt better for knowing it was there. It would be so easy to give in, so easy to uncork the bottle and let the nightmares slip away...

"I hope I'm not intruding?"

The precious vial slipped from his hands. He fumbled, caught it quickly, turned to berate whoever had intruded without knocking.

Neria stood in the middle of his office, hands behind her back, a strange knowing smile on her lips. "I am aren't I...? I'll leave."

"No!" Cullen said, a little too eagerly, quickly shoving the vial back into the folds of his pack. "I mean...err..I'm sorry I didn't come to see you. I've been so busy...I didn't know you were awake? How...how're you feeling?" Maker, he was talking too much. _Shut up Cullen, shut up!_

She smiled though. _Maker, she was beautiful when she smiled_. It made him feel like sunlight was spilling inside him. "Dorian said I should come thank you," she took a step forward, her lips drawn together as though not wanting to say the words. "And so did Renna actually," she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "And Jenkins. You saved my life again, and thrice for good measure."

"Well...I..."

"Ssssh," she held her hand in the air for silence. "I'm _trying_ to be nice..." she muttered. "But don't think I've forgiven you."

"You haven't forgiven me for saving you life," a sly grin crept up his cheek. _That was good, keep being witty._

Neria looked like a startled deer. Her mouth opened and closed before settling into a defensive line. " _That_...is debatable," she muttered. "I have something for you."

Maker knew why but the whisper behind those words turned his insides into jelly. His legs were doing a poor job of holding him up. He coughed, shifting awkwardly.

She stepped close enough to kiss and Cullen had to fight the urge to plunge his hand into her loose auburn curls and pull her closer. A battle he'd won for years in the Circle, he couldn't lose it now. Discipline coupled with the fear of her angry response him held him at bay. He breathed in deep and realised his mistake as the mingled scent of her and lyrium filled his lungs.

His two temptations...his two trials, bound and mixed up together. Inseparable. She started to speak, held something in her hands but her lips were all he could see. _Focus, man!_

"...stole it from the Herald's supplies; did you know he had Jenkins carry his collection! Big mistake, he...Cullen, are you alright?"

She was even closer now. Her breath hit his face, mint and lyrium. That sweet tang he missed so much, that dusty metallic taste slid over his tongue. Maker, he wanted it. 

"Cullen?" she reached out to steady him.

He recoiled, her touch  brushing up his arm like electric. "I can't..."

"You were the one who suggested it, back at Haven!" she stepped backwards, defensive once again. "I thought..." she held a bottle  between them.

"I can't..." was all he could manage and he damned his tongue for being so feckless. He couldn't think of  words...any words. "I can't..."

"Well don't then!" she hissed.

The look she gave him as she flung open the door to his office hurt like an arrow to the heart. "Wait," he said, but it came out all garbled. She didn't look back.


	28. The Lake of Indifference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lake of Indifference is a landmark of the Map of Tendre, a 17th Century allegorical map that charts the course of love for those wanting to traverse its difficult terrain! As always thank you for your support! It really mean a lot to me. Many cookies for you all!

**PART II: The Lion**

* * *

 

He dreamt of her. Of demon her, taunting and cruel; of real her, tempting and beautiful; of angry her, defiant and sparking. When he awoke, panting, breathless, aching, to find himself still at his desk, reports, candles, empty plates, all scattered across the floor, and he groaned.  

Last night was promptly replayed across his mind. He clutched his head in his hands. "Maker, I'm a tool."

He went to work with a thundercloud above his head. Drove his men too hard. Drove himself to hard. It wasn't until Dorian found him, still smearing mortar across the south wall despite the dying light and the lack of company, that he stopped to take a breath.

"You know, Varric's right...you need a hobby..." the Tevinter mage drawled.

"I don't have time for a hobby!" Cullen gasped, taking a step back to admire his work. "Do you think it's wonky?"

"I think you're wonky, Commander," Dorian sighed, glanced around the deserted courtyard, tucked away from the main fortress. "There're men who are trained to do this you know...masons and what have you."

"I..like the work," he muttered. "And the masons are busy in the great hall."

"I don't think I will ever understand you..." Dorian shook his head, his nose wrinkling in disgust, no-doubt at Cullen's sweat stained, rough-spun tunic. Cullen crossed his arms as the mages twinkling eyes looked him up and down. "So, what happened last night then?" he drawled eventually.

Cullen rubbed his hand against his brow, leaving a smear of the gritty mortar across his forehead. "I don't know what you're talking about."  

"Oh really," Dorian hissed. "Because Neria came back in a mood fouler than a nesting dragon and I know full well she went to see you," the mage prodded him in the chest and then looked at his finger in disgust.

"I don't see how it's any of your business," Cullen stepped aside, thinking to return to his pallets and mortar.

"Not my business!" Dorian said. "I am endeavouring to _help_ you, Commander, whether you appreciate it or not. Now, come with me, you're going to relax if I have to force it upon you."

"I have too much..."

"Oh, this isn't a democracy, you don't get a vote. I'm shipping out with the Herald tomorrow and I intend to get to the bottom of this before I leave. You're coming with me, Commander, if I have to drag you by the ear!"

* * *

"But why would she be taking lyrium?" Dorian mused, his booted feet propped up on Cullen's desk, their game of checks lying in pieces, long forgotten. "I knew she was up to something, locked up in that dungeon all day, it can't be healthy!"

"What do you mean?" Cullen asked.

"Well," Dorian uncrossed his ankles, recrossed them. Cullen frowned at the boots so near his paperwork but the mage pretended not to notice. "She must be running her will low to have to take lyrium...but she doesn't leave her room! What could she possibly be up to?"

"Do you think it's dangerous?" the never-ending worry spilled into his guts.

Dorian waved away his fears. "She's not an idiot, Commander," he sighed. "Best leave that to me...I'll find out what she's up to. You on the other hand have your own Neria related task..." his grin made Cullen's fear jolt up his spine.

"I don't know about this..."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Dorian's feet finally left the desk as he planted them on the floor. "You like her, yes?"

"Well..." Cullen hesitated, sighed. "It's not appropriate...she's..."

"A mage?" Dorian's eye gleamed with malice.

"No...well...that's part of it," Cullen rubbed his hands over his temples, hoping the mage would speak over him but when Dorian was silent and the silence grew too heavy for him to bear, he sighed. "You know...I was stationed at the Ferelden Circle with her..."

"Yes..." Dorian said when he didn't immediately continue.

"I always...from the first moment I saw her," Cullen muttered. "And it only grew worse over time. I was...infatuated..."

Dorian leant forwards, hanging off his every word. "Did the two of you...?"

"Maker, no!" Cullen shook his head, trying to clear the thought of it from his mind and not succeeding. _Almost...I was foolhardy enough before she left..._ "It would've been entirely inappropriate..."

"Would have?" Dorian grinned. "But you're not a Templar anymore."

"I..." he broke off. "It's not just that."

He'd never told anyone. Kept it close like a secret. Even when his men sat round the fire, sharing sad stories of war, even when the Revered Mother had told him to leave no detail untold, even when he'd been sure that he'd die from the pain of it, festering like an unhealed wound, even then, he'd never told anyone. It shamed him, what had happened at the Hold. Held him tight within its grip until he was sure he would never escape.

"I can't..." he muttered.

"Cullen..." Dorian was on his feet, one hand firmly on his shoulder. Cullen hadn't seen him move, his sense were filled once again with blood and slaughter. He choked back the bubbling pain. "It's alright, my friend. We shall speak on it some other time..."

"I apologise..." Cullen muttered, hot with embarrassment, trying to scrape some of his dignity back. "I don't know what came over me."

"Commander," Dorian chided, squeezing his shoulder. "Do not think me a child. You hold something terrible within, yes?"

"How...?"

Dorian let him go. "Do you think you are the only man to ever suffer, Commander?"

"Well...I..."

"No," Dorian was already back in his seat. "And nor are you the only man to make an idiot of himself in matters of the heart."

"I don't think..."

"Luckily," Dorian cut across him. "Most men do not have such generous friends, capable of guiding them along the twists and turns of love's dance."

"L...love....?"

"Yes, Commander," Dorian rolled his eyes. "Eventually at least...but for now," and Dorian clapped his hands together. "You must write her a letter."

Cullen thought it through in an instant. "That's a terrible idea..."

"And how many women have you wooed, Commander?" Dorian snapped. "This is how it begins, I assure you. I've seen it a thousand times. The gentleman in question writes the lady a letter professing his tender feelings..."

Cullen couldn't help his snort of incredulity. "She'd never stop teasing me..."

"Isn't that what you want?" Dorian gave him a saucy smile that quickly evaporated. "In any case, she is still a woman, Commander. She still longs to hear a handsome man tell her she's his moon and his stars..."

"I really don't think she does..." Cullen muttered.

"Well that just shows what you know about women," Dorian huffed. "Just...get some ink and paper and I will dictate."

"This is a terrible idea..."

"Do you wish to languish in the lake of indifference?" Dorian crossed his arms. "For that is the road you currently tread."

"Urg," Cullen threw his hands in the air. "Alright, already! I'll write a bloody letter..."

"I love it when a plan comes together," Dorian grinned.


	29. Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

**PART II: The Lion**

_"Goodness knows what the end will be_   
_Oh I don't know where I'm at_   
_It looks as if we two will never be one_   
_Something must be done:"_

_-Ella Fitzgerald, Let's Call the Whole Thing Off_

* * *

 

He already regretted it, the next day, as he strode towards the great hall, a dozen reports in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. Dorian hadn't left his office until the early hours of the morning and Cullen's skull was ringing exhaustion and apprehension at the contents of the letter the mage had promised to deliver.

"Get these to one of the clerks, Ambassdor Montilyet will have to sign off on them," he spoke round a mouthful of bread as he passed the clipboard to the solider trailing him.

"Ser," another man rushed to open the door to Josephine's office for him. "Anything else, ser?"

Cullen swallowed. "I want a report on works on the south wall," he said. "Before noon, if possible."

"Aye, ser."

He walked alone into the corridor between the Ambassador's office and the war room, idly thinking that this part of the fortress could still use the hand of  mason and trying desperately not to think on anything that he'd written in that blasted letter.

_For the longest time I have thought you more than a friend._

He cringed at the thought. _Not now, Cullen, work time._ He opened the door to the war room, an apology ready on his lips for his lateness.

Neria was leant over the map, fingers idly brushing the Ferelden coastline, her mouth moving as though calculating the distance. She didn't look up as he entered and when he glanced around he realised they were alone.

_Did you get my letter?_

It almost burst from him before he could stop it. He caught his tongue between his teeth at the last minute but a small choking sound escaped.

She looked up. He wondered if she'd ever looked so fragile before; pale, orbish eyes ringed with lack of sleep. Her hair bound but her braids frazzled, unruly curls tangling at the nape of her neck.   

He felt like he was going to boil alive under that gaze. He shuffled, awkward. _Damn it man,_ Dorian's voice echoed in his mind, _do you want to languish in the lake of indifference? Ask her about the letter!_

"Commander," she said it coldly, and then went back to her careful examination of the map.

 _Well you've ballsed it up now_. He ran his fingers over his brow. Heart sinking.

"Was Cassandra truly angry?" Josphine's voice echoed from the hallway and Cullen knew he'd missed his chance. He scuttled to a nearby window, hoping the cool air seeping between the cracks would freeze his embarrassment.

"She...threw a table at him," the Herald's gruff baritone. "I'm sure they'll settle their differences...they are both professionals," the door flew open and Maxwell Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste and for a week, the leader of the Inquisition stepped over the boundary.  "Ah good, we are all here."

Neria straightened, stepping aside for the Herald to take her place at the front of the map. Cullen approached cautiously as Leliana shut the door behind her.

"I have met with the Champion," the Herald spread his hands before him. "And, uncouth as she is, I believe she speaks the truth." He paused, his hand stretching out to Storm Coast and tapping. "She has a Warden ally, hiding here in Crestwood..."

"Who?" Neria interrupted.

A twitch ran up the side of the Herald's face. "She did not say, simply that they were investigating corruption in the Warden ranks."

"Corruption..." Neria whispered. 

"Indeed..." the Herald raised one dark eyebrow. "I summoned you here to question you on this matter."

"I...haven't been with the Wardens for years..." she spoke to the table.

"But..." the Herald grunted. "There is something you're not telling me."

Cullen watched the muscles in Neria's jaw clench with a mounting discomfort. It was no difficulty to imagine the spitfire of a mage punching the Herald, and if he knew Neria well enough that was exactly the thought spinning around her mind.

"There is...something," she said as though with a mouthful of glass.

"Yes?"

"I..." she shifted, eyes still lowered to the map. "Since the archdemon appeared...I've," she stopped, sighed. "I've been hearing my Calling."

 Leliana's breath hitched. Josephine's silken form shifted. Cullen felt like the whole world had slipped out from under him.

"And what exactly is the Calling?" the Herald sighed, as though bored.

"It is the swansong of the blight," Neria muttered. "The Old Gods calling upon their children to come. It signals the end of a Grey Warden's life."

"No," Leliana said. "No...it can't be...it's too much of a coincidence...it's too soon!"

Neria gave her friend a compassionate glance.

"Then why do you not leave?" the Herald asked.

"I am not done yet, Inquisitor," Neria shifted her weight. "I did not come here under pretence. You knew I had my own mission," she broke off and Cullen was sure she glanced at him but a second later she was staring back at the map. "I seek a cure, an elongation, a way to...stem the flood of the Calling."

The Herald crossed his arms. "You seek to shirk your duty."

Neria's eyes became snakelike slits of rage. She shook her head. "It's not for me. It's for..." her mouth bunched together. "It's for the King."

It was like a punch in the gut. _How could I have been such an idiot! She's still with the King. Of course she is._ His stomach squirmed, full of a thousand worms. _For the longest time I have thought you more than a friend._ Why did he let the blasted mage talk him into writing that...and worse?!

"I see," the Herald sighed. "You could present a danger. Perhaps we should station a Templar outside your room? Commander?"

"That will not be necessary," Neria hissed.

"That is not your decision to make," the Herald cut across her and turned to Cullen. "I want you to make a full report on the possible threat that a mage experiencing the Calling could pose."

"I'm no longer a Templar, Inquisitor," Cullen said. "And I really don't think it..."

"We have a duty," the Herald began, straightening as though at the start of some great speech, "to protect the people of the Inquisition in every way possible, Commander. I'm sorry if it makes you feel uncomfortable but you _are_ a templar, and the most experienced one we have. You will do this before I return from Crestwood."

Cullen's hand went unconsciously to his neck. _It was going to be a long day._

* * *

Dorian was lingering outside the war room, pacing like a caged lion. Cullen was the last to leave, still hardly believing anything he'd heard. The mage came rushing up to him, face pulled back in a grimace.

"We have a problem," he whispered, grasping Cullen's arm.

"Please tell me you haven't given her the letter," he groaned, shaking the mage off.

Dorian scowled at him. "That letter was a work of art," he gasped. "It would have made her swoon like the damsel she wants to be..."

"I seriously doubt that," Cullen hissed. "Look, this was all a terrible mistake..."

"Do you know what she did?" Dorian hissed, clearly not listening. "She burnt it! She took the letter, hours of my sweat and toil, and she casually set it alight, like it was nothing! I nearly zapped her where she sat."

"Burnt it...?" Cullen hissed. "Oh Maker, no..."

"Yes," Dorian hissed. "It was horrible...and then... the cheek of it...she said..." the mage cleared his throat. "'If the Commander wishes to speak with me then he can grow a pair and do it in person!' Imagine that!"

Cullen could. It didn't help the terrible sinking feeling mixed as it was with the fluttering of relief. _It's better that she never read it._

"I'm calling the whole thing off," Cullen said, trying to skirt around the mage. "It was a terrible idea."

"What's brought this on?" Dorian whined. "Last night it was all hopeful, the joy of a blossoming romance..."

"She's still with the King," Cullen said through gritted teeth. "Now if you'd step aside I have work to be doing."

Dorian did step aside but then he trailed in Cullen's wake like a shark scenting blood. "I don't  believe it," he stated. "Where did you get this information?"

"From the lady's own mouth," he said, before flinging the door open to Josephine's office.

The ambassador nodded a greeting, a strange look on her face as the two men walked silently through her rooms. _Maker...I hope she didn't hear that,_ he thought, nodding politely back. If she had it would be all over Skyhold within the hour. _The Commander trying to steal the King's mistress... Maker that would look bad._    

"Tell me exactly what she said," Dorian insisted, when they were back in the bustle of the entrance hall.

"I have more important things to do," Cullen grunted. "I no longer wish to indulge these...frivolities."

Dorian stopped, hands on hips. "You are both utterly impossible! May you drown in the lake of indifference then, see if I care."


	30. The Silence of Strangers

**Part II: The Lion**

* * *

 

"You asked to see me, Commander?" The elven woman sat in the near empty library, close to the sweating stone chimney breast, Genitivi's _Fade and Mysterious Spirits_ open on her lap. "Please, take a seat." She indicated the armchair with a wave of her hand.

Cullen had thought better than to summon her to his office though he outranked her since she'd been stripped of all titles by the Inquisition. Grand Enchanter she many no longer be, but Fiona still had steel in her gaze, a steadfast pride in her sharp features, an air of authority that cannot be broken by mere words. He unclipped his sword belt and sat with it across his knee.

For a time they stayed in the silence of two strangers, the hush of the library complete but for the flutterings and squawkings of birds in the tower high above. Fiona studied him, her hands steepled below her chin.

"I came seeking your expertise on a rather delicate matter," he said eventually. "May I have your word on discretion?" 

"You may," she said, clearly intrigued. "What troubles you, child?"

He blinked. Couldn't remember the last time someone called him a child in a manner that wasn't derisive. Far from comforting him it made him starkly aware of this woman's experience.

"You were once a Grey Warden?" he asked to be polite for he knew well her story.

"I have that honour," she sighed, closed her book shut with a snap. "Dubious as it is."

"Perhaps, you could advise me," he said and before she could agree he continued, not wanting to lose his nerve. "I have been asked to conduct a report on the danger of a mage Warden experiencing the first signs of the Calling..."

Fiona interrupted him with a wry smile. "I know, child. She told me."

Cullen gripped the sheath of his greatsword, still across his knees. "She...Neria told you?"

"Oh, yes," Fiona shifted her weight to lean on the arm of her chair. "The Warden and I have...bonded over these last weeks."

"I see," Cullen's neck began to ache, he couldn't help but feel that this was some sort of trap, despite coming here of his own free will. "Then perhaps you would...share with me your feelings on the risk she poses."

"Perhaps," Fiona was still smiling and Cullen quickly looked back to his lap. "She is a remarkable woman, is she not?"

A familiar heat flared in Cullen's chest. _Oh, Maker...not now._ "Yes," was all he could force out.

"Then you will see that she is strong enough to withstand this...at least for a time," Fiona sighed. "I have tried to help her as much as possible with finding a cure. It will be no simple matter...and now there seems a deadline."

"If there's anything I can do," he said it without thinking.

"Oh, I think there might be," Fiona grinned and the flare in Cullen's chest rose to his cheeks, he coughed in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. When he finally recovered himself Fiona's smile had vanished. "Neria is a troubled woman, Commander. I believe what she needs most...is a friend."

"I..." he didn't know what to say. He wanted to protest, to say that she had a thousand people, a whole nation, a King, who loved and admired her, who would do anything for her. Why would she need him of all people?

"You are a rare man, Commander," Fiona said, as though reading his thoughts. " You care for your charges greatly. However much we protest the yoke of Chantry...Perhaps, and I do not say this lightly, a Templar that cares could be a benefit to a mage, though I have never seen it be the case."

"I'm not a Templar..." he muttered.

"You do not wear the armour or have the office," she shrugged. "That means little and less, I have found. In your heart, you are still a Templar. Why else would you be here, worrying about the danger of a mage?"

"It was an order..."

"Pfft," Fiona blew out her lips. "One you could have delegated..."

And hadn't he thought about it, but there was no-one else...not really. "Could you tell me what it's like? To hear the Calling...?"

"Have you ever experienced a sound that has no source. Commander? A buzzing, a ringing, perhaps?"

"Once," he gritted the teeth against the memory.

"Then imagine that being the most beautiful sound you have ever heard, a compelling terrible song that fades and crescendos in unknowable melody," her eyebrows drew together. "At first they try to fight it...but there is no respite. Sometimes it takes weeks, months, years but all will eventually succumb...whether to madness or to a death alone in the Deep Roads, it is not a happy end."

"But you...were saved such a death," Cullen couldn't help but mutter. "That means there is a way."

"It does," she sighed, an infinite sadness in her downcast eyes. "And I do not know it. What I would give to know..."

_Anything,_ Neria had said among the frozen pines, pleading with him to understand the Warden's duty. But he has never contemplated their sacrifice. _Should it hurt this much?_

He was about to say more when a group of mages burst into library, laughing and bellowing until they spied Fiona and then quickly hushing each other in a gale of giggles.

"I should go," he stood, buckled his sword belt back around his waist. "Thank you, Grand Enchanter."

"Anytime, Commander."


	31. I'll Tell You My Sins And You Can Sharpen Your Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! It helps the writing process so much to know you wonderful people are reading. ^_^

 

**Part II: The Warden**

_Take me to church,_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies,_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife,_

_Offer me that deathless death,_

_Good God, let me give you my life._

(Hozier, Take Me To Church)

* * *

 

The florid script of the long dead mage began to blur before her eyes. Her fingers found the furrows of her brow, lingering at the white hot point where the sharp song left its painful mark.

She had tried all the remedies that she could concoct and a few she couldn't. She tried to snatch sleep but her futile seeking kept her awake in the Fade. Fiona had been kind enough to slip her a sleeping potion that she was still too afraid to touch. She liked little the thought of being out cold in such a hostile environment.

The Calling was a heavy weight to carry. A deep depression opened within her and she was terrified of slipping into its blackness. _I have failed..._ she thought, over and over until the words lost all meaning but the lance of guilt still stabbed at every syllable.

When she'd first stumbled out of the Skyhold infirmary she'd repacked what few items she'd had after Haven. She'd wanted to leave. To give in. To succumb as thousands of brothers and sisters had before her. She'd always told herself she wouldn't linger, waiting for some death that she could not control. Little did she count on Leliana's watchfulness. The bard's face had cracked like porcelain and Neria could not bear to watch the welling in her friend's eyes or the twin tears that caught in the moonlight as they fell, or to hear her plead, _I can't lose you too._

She burned that image into her mind. She had to stay. She had to find a cure. She had to make up for the time she'd spent ruining these people's lives. Alistair's eyes flashed in front of her own accusingly, as though he were truly there, pressed against the blackness of her mind.

A sudden knocking at her door jolted her awake. It was neither Dorian nor Solas, one cared little for her privacy and the other's hand was not so heavy. She swore internally.

"Give me a minute..." she shouted.

She leapt to her feet, curses muttering themselves without thought. She shrugged off her heavy cloak piled it over her alchemical gear, slipped the book she'd been reading off her desk, clutching it as she searched for a hiding place, stubbing her toe on her desk as she turned. A whimper escaped.

"My lady, are you alright?"

 _Cullen! Crapsticks!_ "I err...I'm just...getting dressed." She winced. _At the third hour after noon. Bad lie!_

She hobbled over to the cot, slid the ancient tome into the darkness underneath. Checked the tiny room again. Grabbed three items off the desk and hastily put them in her pocket. Took a deep breath. Went to open the door and caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She looked like she'd been sleeping under a hedge.

She smoothed down the frizz of her hair, licked her finger to attack the splats of ink across her face, succeeded in rubbing a black smear across the bridge of her nose, cursed for the third time in as many seconds and pulled down the sleeves of her robe to clasp them in her palms.

He took her in with a cold dispassion. The same Cullen that had questioned her among the pines. Templar Cullen. "May I come in?"

"Please," Neria swept the door open and gestured into the room. He took careful steps into the squeezed chamber, frowning at the strange black stain on her desk, the herbs drying by the hearth, the hundreds of bottles and books that were piled or thrown across rickety tables or the bare slate floor. As she watched his eyebrows dive into his hairline she gritted her teeth, trying not to let her eyes dart to the things she'd missed. 

"I'm here about that report..." he said, having found space to stand among the chaos. 

"Oh..." Neria clicked the door shut, "of course you are."   

The sat across from each other, his eyes looking anywhere but her and for a terrified moment they settled on the slice of silver winking out from under her discarded cloak . She took a deep breath, summoning some better lie than her last one but his eyes left the corner to bore through her.

"You've not been feeling well?"

She almost laughed. _Maker, this is no time for hysteria._ "You could say that."

He looked to the sheathed sword across his lap. "Is there anything you need?" And then right back at her. The whites of his eyes were cracked through with red, his solemn gaze ringed with bruise coloured smudges. His usually well groomed hair was ruffled, sticking up like straw, speaking of his hand nervously threading through it.

"Not unless you've a cure for the blight," she sighed. "What of you, Commander? You look tired."

"This isn't about me, my lady," he muttered. "Let me do my work."

"Go ahead," she waved her hand, trying to be calm despite her pounding heart and the shine of the silver threatening to draw her eye. "Probe away."

"Has the Calling effected your ability to control your magic?" 

"No," she said crossing her arms.

"My lady, please," he shook his head. "Do not make this harder than it already is."

"I'm not," she grunted. "I'm telling you the truth."

Cullen huffed a deep breath out his nose. "Have you noticed any increase in demonic...."

"No," she repeated.

"Will you let me speak?" he sighed.

"Will you call me my name?" she asked back, thrusting out her chin. "Will you stop being so..." she fumbled for the word, agitated already, risking a glance at the dagger and then lowering her eyes to the desk.

"So what?" he asked, the patience in his voice swelling her rage.

"Templary...." she thudded back into her chair. "I mean," she sighed, the song now a tight bunch of pain behind her eyes, fuelling her rage and her words. "I was willing to forgive you so much. And you just...threw it back in my face. And now...and now you're here...questioning me as cold as can be. What..." for the first time since she started her tirade she looked at him. It broke her resolve.

His hands were deep into his hair. His shoulders hunched around his ears as though to protect him from her words. He stared at the floor, sheepishly.

"What's...going on?" she whispered. And when he didn't reply just hunched further into himself she felt the anger return. "If you actually mean to change things between mages and templars then honesty works both ways. Why should I be open with you, if you're not willing to do the same?"

His head snapped upwards. The corner of his mouth quivered. "I do not wish to worry you..."

"As I don't you," she said. "But you can't always get what you want."

He sighed, took a deep breath. His shoulders fell back but he still wouldn't look at her. "I'm not a templar anymore..." he muttered.

"Then why are you here....?"

"I mean..." he straightened his posture, turned to look out of the grimy window. "I've stopped taking lyrium."

"Oh..." she said, internally kicking herself for not seeing it sooner. "But isn't that...dangerous." _What a stupid thing to say!_

He let out a humourless laugh. "Somewhat yes."

"Can I help?" she asked. "I mean...I make a pretty good tincture to settle stomachs..."

"That won't be necessary," he said. "Adan..."

"Of course," she said, her own guts fizzing. _Maker, I'm an ass. Of course he doesn't need my help._ She resisted the urge to slap her palm against her forehead.

"Not that I don't appreciate the gesture," a small smile turned his lips upwards but it didn't reach his eyes and then quickly fell back into a firm line. "Now," he shifted. "Will you be candid with me?"

She hesitated and, hating herself for the lie, she nodded. 


	32. Like Real People Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update this! Real life keeps elbowing it's way in. Will post a few chapters in the coming days to make up for it. Hope you're all having a wonderful Spring!

**PART II: The Lion**

_I had a thought, dear_

_However scary,_

_About that night_

_The bugs and the dirt_

_Why were you digging?_

_What did you bury?_

_Before those hands pulled me from the earth?_

(Hozier, Like Real People Do) 

* * *

Lieutenant Harris stopped at the head of the two regiments to give Cullen his distinctive  sharp salute, holding it stiffly until the Commander gestured for him to march on. Boots clattered against cobblestones, caught on the surrounding walls, making it seem like half a thousand men, rather than half a hundred, were moving out to the Emerald Graves. Some men mimicked their Lieutenant as their orderly lines passed Cullen stood to attention. He saw Jenkins' face among them and was sure the man gave him an inappropriate wink before first regiment disappeared through the gate.

Another day, another time, Cullen may have smiled at that, but his mind was preoccupied with the ghastly wonderings a Commander must make.

How many of them will come back? How many of them will join the graves of the endless elves, falling for their fight against Samson and his lyrium trade? He disliked thinking of his men in terms of numbers, they were living, breathing people, with hopes and dreams, wives and families.

And he was sending them to face a monster.

He couldn't help think that he should be among them. Marching at their side. Foiling Samson with his blade rather than his tactics. But he was needed at Skyhold.

He watched until they were no more than the churned up snow they left in their wake. He watched until the portcullis fell. He watched until the cold seeped between his armour and he shivered.

"Commander?"

He hadn't heard the Spymaster approach, but that was as normal. Leliana was so light on her feet that she barely left indents in the rug of white that carpeted the courtyard. The smile he gave her was a formality, tired and heavy with regret.

"We would all give our lives to the cause," she said eventually. "Do not fear for them."

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and do not falter," he muttered.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers," she continued and Cullen was taken aback by the bitterness in her tone. "The Champions of the just...But to keep peace we must wage war, and only the Maker and his Bride may judge, just and unjust alike."

He tore his eyes away from the gate to glance down at her. She stared ahead, her hands clasped firmly behind her back, the steel rod of her spine as unwavering as her will. "You are troubled."

"Are you not?" she said. "Corypheus..."

"Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children," he said, and she was shaking her head before he'd even finished. "He lies, my lady. I promise you."

Leliana sighed out her disbelief. When she said nothing  more Cullen turned back to the trail of sludge and his own troubles. A silence settled over Skyhold, an odd soundlessness in a place that had seen weeks of chaos. The rattle of a persistent workman's saw, zipping back and forth from some distant scaffold underpinned the quiet. The sun was beginning to sink beneath the towers and Cullen's mind drifted to the mountains of reports awaiting him on his desk.

"You should take some time for yourself, Commander," Leliana said. "I assure you this peace won't last long."

"It never does," he sighed.

* * *

He had locked his office not an hour before. He gripped the hilt of his sword, second guessing himself as the hinges of his door creaked open and shut in the breeze. He'd been distracted but he felt sure he'd slid the key into the lock and turned. _Had someone broken in? Why would they leave evidence of the crime? Did I just forget..?_ The uncertainty bit hard as he stopped the door shutting with his foot.  

"Cullen...?"

His greatsword thunked back into its sheath as he stepped into his office. _Neria_.

She was sat at his desk and there was something...different about her. She'd lit all the candles she could find and she sparkled in their light and it suddenly struck him that _everything_ was different. Her hair was no longer a wild and untameable mess but pinned and styled like a lady at court. She'd discarded the robe of dusty black that had swallowed her since they'd got to Skyhold, her lithe body swathed in the green of the Inquisition.

She looked like what she was. The mistress of a King.

And when he finally remembered to unhitch his breath he was sure he could smell perfume.

 _Maker, give me strength._ He'd never seen Neria like this before but in his nightmares. He swallowed as she smiled.

"I thought you might indulge me?" she indicated something on the desk that he didn't see.

"How did you...?" he gestured to the door, suddenly remembering how to speak.

"I walk through walls, remember...?" she smiled. "I did knock but no-one answered and I was freezing and I thought I'd leave it open, so as not to startle you..."

Cullen stepped into the room on legs he was certain had turned to soup. He thanked the Maker he managed to sit on the other side of the desk without making a complete idiot of himself.

"You're not angry?" she said and when he risked a glance at her he was sure she was pouting slightly.

"I would prefer if you used more conventional methods," he heard himself say. _Why? Why did I say that?_

"Of course," she muttered, but he could see that familiar tension in her jaw. "So...will you play with a lonely damsel in distress?"

"P..play?" he spluttered.

"Checks," but she was smiling as she pointed to the desk. "We aren't very observant today, Commander."

"I...er...am somewhat distracted," he muttered, then looked to where her ivory finger pointed. She'd already laid the board out, the white pieces aligned next to him, a black piece already dancing across her knuckles.

"I remember you playing in the Circle," she said, almost absentmindedly. "I thought...we could play, since Dorian has abandoned us."

"Yes...er...of course," he shuffled his chair forward, grateful for a distraction from his looming paper work. _She_  is _wearing perfume. Maker, she smells like starlight._ "You..are sure you wish to play second," her pile of black tokens said as much. "I mean... it's customary for the more experienced player to take the disadvantage."

"I know," she grinned. "Shall we begin."

He had thought to play softly, politely staking out territory in his own two quadrants whilst allowing her the chance to do the same. He quickly changed tactics when Neria pressed the advantage gained from his courtesy. He met her head on, piece for piece, intense swift combat, and then as soon as she'd eaten into his lines she flung the battle to a different space entirely and he faltered to catch up with her. _She is leading me around by the nose!_ He realised, far too late to claw back victory.

"I haven't been schooled like that since I was a boy playing with my sister!" he said, conceding. "Where did you learn?"

She was scraping her tokens back across the lines board. "Mia? Wasn't it."

"How do you know?" Cullen asked.

"Oh, I found some files at the Circle," she shrugged. "Well, actually Zev found them, and Leli persuaded me to keep them."

"And you remember my sister's name from that?" Cullen grinned.

"Is that so strange?"

"Considering you had the world on your shoulders at the time..." he couldn't stifle that smile. _Stupid Cullen. King's Mistress! Stop smiling._

She pushed a pile of tokens across to him. "A chance to win back some dignity?"

They played in the same silence they had last time; concentration settling over them. He pressed her harder this time, went on the attack at the first. She surprised him. Refusing to meet his attacks she traced indistinct lines around him, elusively taking tiny parts of his quadrants but slinking back into home territory when he tried to suppress her.

"So...you didn't answer my question," he said, between a lull in the grab for space "Who taught you? You didn't play at the Circle."

She pulled one of the black pieces from her sleeve and placed it with a click on the board. "I learnt at court, checks was all the rage when I... returned from Amaranthine. Fergus Cousland taught me."

"The Teryn of Highever," Cullen grunted. "Quite the tutor..."

"Oh, he had his own agenda," she sighed. "All of us did."

Cullen frowned at that, he was never a man to pick through the intrigues of court. "What do you mean, 'his own agenda?'" He placed a white piece next to hers.

"He thought to woo me," she shrugged.

"Woo..." Cullen repeated. "Oh," and before he could stop himself. "But I thought..." he caught his tongue at the last second. "Nevermind"

"No...not 'nevermind'," she leant forwards on the table, a sultry smile on her lips. "What were you going to say?"

"I thought..." he reached for his neck. "I thought... aren't you... involved...with the King."

Her face fell. He spluttered, trying to make it right. _How is my foot so often in my mouth!_

"Cullen," she muttered, staring at her hands. "Do you think...I'm still with Alistair?" She gave him a pensive look.

"Well...you said about finding a cure for him, and I assumed..." he rubbed his hands over his brow. "I assumed that meant that you still...that you still..."

"Love him?"

"Do you?" he asked, not a little breathless. "Not that I intend to pry or...anything...but...I would be..." he stopped when she looked up at him. He swallowed.

"Alistair ended whatever it was we had a long time ago, seven years perhaps," her brow furrowed. "It wasn't love for a long time before it was over."

"I didn't mean to..."

"It's alright, Cullen," she smiled but it seemed hesitant. "I...should have said something before."

"Do you...want to talk about it?" Cullen asked more out of courtesy than a wish to know.

Her head bowed to her lap, strands of auburn hair falling across her face. He'd never realised, until that moment, just how small she was...how fragile. The force of her personality made her larger than life; her quick anger, her stubborn pride, her sharp tongue, he'd never dreamt that these could mask the vulnerability he saw now.   

"I always thought that love would be enough," she said eventually, solemnly, head still lowered so he could see none of her face. "I thought...if it survived the blight it could live through anything..." she expelled a breath that rustled her curls. "I was wrong."

He didn't know what to say. He'd asked to hear this and now he was wishing fervently he hadn't...he'd never seen her look so defeated. He reached out to grab her hand but retreated before they touched. "You don't have to..."

"I want to...it's...right that you know who I really am," her voice broke and any hesitancy he'd felt was washed away by her sadness. He took her hand.

Her fingers entwining around his sent little flickers of pleasure up his arm. Her thumb pressed against the palm of his hand as she squeezed.

"I have done things that...I'm not proud of," she swallowed.

"Haven't we all?" the corner of his mouth turned upwards. "Neria...none of us are perfect."

"And I am so far from it," she muttered. "I've done terrible things all with the excuse of love. I caused so much pain."

"I heard a wise man once said that love makes us blind," he ran his fingers over her hands, feeling the raised lumps of scar tissue between her soft, white skin.

"A wise man indeed," she sighed and then suddenly the warmth of her hand was stolen from him. Somewhere, very distant, a crier was tolling the hour. Neria's head shot upwards as her mouth moved to count the bells.

"Maker, it's late," she rose suddenly. "I should..."

"Of course..." Cullen muttered. "Neria...if you ever need to talk, I'm here. Just remember that, alright?"

"Thank you."

And before he could rise to see her out she was gone. The scent of her perfume lingering on his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! The game that Cullen and his LI play in DA:I looks much more like chess than it does here, that's because I am God-awful at chess and very much doubt my ability to portray someone who's good at it! So here I have squished together something that looks a lot more like 'Go' an ancient Chinese board game that I'm not so terrible at! I hope you'll forgive me the liberties I've taken.


	33. Set Ablaze Every Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry it's been such a long time since I updated. Real life has been an utter whirlwind and I'm still trying to find the ground. I've set aside today to getting this fic up to date, so hopefully you lovely people won't have to wait too long for more! So much love for sticking with me. Especially to the wonderful Spada, who planted the plot bunny of this chapter in my head by showing me the film Paprika! (If you haven't read Spada's work...do it! She's an amazing author and my praise cannot do her work justice!) *Phew*

**Part II: The Lion**

_"Night dreams of day, and light dreams of darkness, and the sun is a giant, ignorant, mass of gas. It releases huge amounts of hot energy to track down the darkness and set ablaze every shadow."_

_(Dr Kei Himuro, Paprika)_

* * *

 

_He was back there. Though it wasn't there. The floor hard and cold beneath his aching knees. Blood thudding around his ears. Fear clamped down on his chest. The Chant spilled from his tongue. Words he couldn't hear though he was sure he spoke._

_Meric fell first. He watched, helpless as they came for him. Monstrous creatures, barely human. When he saw what they did he prayed for a swift death. Alfric was next. His whimpering pleas, the streaks of blood in his wake, the delight the demons took in breaking him apart, like children pulling the legs from a spider, all of this, every instant, would stay etched onto his heart forever._

_The screams were torture. Worse than the screams was the seconds of silence. Dead, heavy, ringing with intent. They would come again, once the screams were ended. They would come and try to pull him apart at the seams. But he would not fall. He could not falter._

_Maker my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith shall sustain me; I shall not fear the legion. Should they set themselves against me._

_And they did. Again and again they clawed at his prison. Teeth yellowed with time and scum, black nails, hard as onyx, the stench of raw meat, of blood oozed off them. They shied from the Chant and when it became clear they could not break him with violence they found other means._

_They snaked into his mind through the blood. They found..._ her _, poisoned him again and again with the shame of his thoughts. Sickened by himself he could not watch. He heard himself pleading for death when they came, heard his voice crack and shake and finally break._

_"Cullen..."_

_"I am so tired of these cruel jokes...these tricks..."_

_"Cullen...look at me."_

_"No!" he screamed. "Be gone! Foul demon!"_

_"You're safe, Cullen," she said. "The nightmare is gone."_

_A sudden warmth spilled over his skin. A light, a scent, a perfume. He couldn't place it. It gave him the strength to open his eyes._

_The floor beneath him was no hard stone. Grass threaded between his fingers. Slowly, he raised his eyes to find his arm no longer encased in Order steel but in a thick doublet of blue. Something rustled above him. A hand settled on his shoulder. A small hand._

_"Cullen, look at me."_

_He did._

_Concern wrinkled her brow. Her hand moved to cup his cheek and he couldn't resist the enticing warmth. "You survived it Cullen, always remember that."_

_And a sob broke from him, unexpectedly and he choked it down but she heard it anyway and he suddenly found himself wrapped up in her. Her shoulder pressed against his tears. Her hand through his hair. Her voice so close to his ear. He didn't know how long they stayed like that. Time seemed not to matter._

_When she finally let him go he was shaking. She knelt on the grass before him and he could see where his tears had stained her nightdress. He blinked._

_Sunlight was pouring into the glade in long streaks of honey. Among the trees ribbons of a thousand colours grew like leaves. The ground was warm despite the canopy's shadows dancing over the grass. "What is this place?" he asked._

_"This is my bower," she smiled. "I heard you screaming and I thought..."_

_"You heard me screaming?" he shook his head. "How is that possible?"_

_"I'm...not entirely sure..." she shrugged and her night dress slipped down her shoulder. "Are you feeling better?"_

_"A little," he said, tentatively. "I still don't understand..."_

_"Wardens have terrible nightmares," she started picking at a loose thread on her lap. "I found an ancient text that described a way to manipulate the Fade  to a dreamers will... and I made this place."_

_"So...we're in the Fade?" he muttered._

_She laughed, lyrical, like a tittering brook. He felt himself redden. "Yes, Commander. Now won't you come inside."_

_The plastered walls were impossibly high, a far grander space than the hut had promised. Silks draped from the high ceilings, the same sea blue as his doublet.  A four-poster-bed occupied most of one wall, a grand oak bed head stretching across the velvet paper like the branches of a tree. He was a little unnerved as she guided him to an armchair._

_She sat across from him, radiant as he'd ever seen her in the strange light. She no longer wore her night dress but one of silk, tight at the waist and plunging at the breast. He coughed in an attempt to hide his creeping desire and the flush of shame that always came with it._

_"You're not alright...are you?"she asked, the corners of her mouth turned down._

_"How can I..." he choked. "How can I know that you're...that you're really...you...?"_

_"And not some demon?" she finished his thought for him. "You don't have to stay here. I can wake you, if you'd prefer."_

_"I...think it might be better..." he sighed, gripping the arms of his chair. "I'm...sorry. I know you're trying to help..."_

_"Ssssh," she smiled. "My door will always be open to you, Cullen." She brushed her finger's across his brow. "I'll see you soon."_


	34. Condolences and Crestwood

**Part II: The Lion**

* * *

 

Scouts returned two days after his strange dream with news that the Herald was picking his way back between the mountains. The fortress thrummed with activity, workers desperate to repair the remainder of the walls, cooks rushing between stalls and kitchen, chambermaids pinning linen on long lines despite the chill. Cullen couldn't help the swell of pride at the sight. They had achieved so much in the month since Haven.

"Commander," a gruff voice said, and he turned to see Corporal Jenkins hovering at his side, pale and sombre.

"Corporal,"  he clapped the man on the shoulder. "What's the trouble? You're back from the Graves so soon..."

"Aye...er..." Jenkins had his helm between his fingers. "I've bad news, Ser." Cullen nodded but the man did not continue immediately, thick eyebrows drawering in on themselves as he stared at the courtyard below. "We lost the Lieutenant, Ser," he whispered. "One of those Red Templar bastards got between our ranks. The Lieutenant he... tried to fend them off, saved our lives...the poor sod."

Cullen sighed. And it had been such a beautiful morning. "Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and do not falter," he recited, almost instinctively. They'd lost so many good men but it never stopped hurting. "He's at the Makers side now, Jenkins. Do not doubt it."

"Oh I do not, Ser. Lieutenant Harris was a good egg, no doubt the Maker opened his arms right up for one so worthy," Jenkins said. "Too bad about the rest of us swine left in a world so much less without him."

"Well said," Cullen muttered. "Do you know of any family he had? We should write..."

"He spoke of a sister in Denerim, Ser," Jenkins said. "He planned to go see her after... Well tis too late now."

 _I must write to Mia..._ "Get me a name, I'll see that it's done," he said. Jenkins nodded and turned to leave.

"Corporal?" Cullen hesitated. "Harris'  body... did you...?"

The man's face tightened. He shook his head. "Sorry, Ser...wasn't thinking about the dead."

"Quite right, Corporal," he said. "Tell the Tavern to open a keg in his honour."

"Commander."

The man left him to his thoughts.

Command was a lonely burden. He'd always known the weight of duty, the tireless disquiet of the Templar path. Fighting next to a man, seeing him fall to an arrow, or a blade, or a spell, regretting a brother's death whilst at the same time grateful that it was not your own, that was the load of a soldier. A Commander's struggle was different. Men still fell, men still died, but all at a stroke of his hand, all at a word, an order, _his_ order.

_Lyrium..._

He brushed the thought aside but once its tendrils were around his mind it was like ignoring a thousand needles. It would make things easier to bear, lighten the load, allow him peace. His last bottle was nestled on his bookcase...more than that he had a key to the supply rooms. He swallowed that particular thought. _I am no thief! Maker's breath, I cannot let this addiction take me. I have to fight._ He gripped the wall to keep himself straight.

"Commander?"

"What is it?" he hissed, whirling on one of Leliana's scouts, his hilt tight in his hand 

"I..." the boy cowered. "Sorry..I.."

 _Get a grip on yourself, man!_ "My apologies," he muttered. "What do you need?"

 "The Herald sent word ahead, Ser," the boy passed him a clipboard and quickly retreated from the battlements.

The Herald's efficient hand and clipped  tone summoned him to the War Room within the hour and he still had a thousand things to do. _Maker, it truly never ends._

* * *

"My condolences, Commander," the Herald boomed as he flung the doors of the war room open, Ambassador Montilyet in his wake. "Harris will be a hard man to replace."

"Thank you, Inquisitor,"  Cullen bowed his head. "The wound is still...so fresh. It will take time to appoint a replacement."

"Time that we do not have," the Herald said, making his way to the map. Dirt from the road still smeared across his face, his usually polished armour caked and coated. "We are at war, Commander. If you do not feel up to the task send me a shortlist of men and I shall..."

"No," Cullen said. "I will...appoint someone by the end of the week."

"Good!" the Herald clapped his hands together. "Now...where is that blasted woman?"

"Of whom do you speak, my Lord?" Josephine asked.

"Who do you think?" the Herald fixed her with a sharp look. "Our _beloved_ Hero..."

"Ah, I err...sent the summons, your Worship. But I...fear she may be...ignoring them," Josie's delicate features grimaced slightly. "I can send another messenger..."

"No," the Herald grunted. "If she does not see fit to come when I call then she cuts of no nose but her own."

"As you say, Inquisitor," Josie gave a nervous laugh. "Did your mission go well in Crestwood?"

"Crestwood," the Herald shook his head. " A forsaken place. I did however meet with Hawke, vile woman...and her Grey Warden friend, Stroud."

"And what did you learn?" Leliana stepped from the shadows. "About the Wardens...about Corypheus?"

"Stroud was much more forthcoming than your friend," the Herald said. "He believes that the Warden's disappearance and Corypheus' ascent are linked."

"How is that possible?" Leliana stepped forwards until her hand rested on the war table.

"In Stroud's own words; he speaks with the voice of the blight..."

"And the Calling? Is he doing that too?" Leliana asked, unable to keep the worry from her tone.

"That...is perhaps the worst part," the Herald sighed. "Apparently all the Warden's in Orlais are experiencing it. Stroud told me Warden Commander Clarel concocted some crack-pot plan involving blood magic to..."

"Blood magic," Cullen repeated. "For Maker's sake, it's _always_ blood magic."

"Quite, Commander," the Herald sighed. "They have gathered in the Western Approach. I _will_ stamp out these apostates..."

"I would tread carefully, my Lord," Jopsephine said. "The Grey Wardens will use any means possible to end the blight...if they believe they are all dying, then I cannot begin to imagine the methods they may resort to," she paused, clearly unsure. "May I...make a suggestion?"

"You are my advisor, my Lady, it's what we keep you for..." the Herald said.

"Perhaps, this would be a good time to strengthen diplomatic ties," she said. "I mean...we have our own Warden mage simply languishing in the cellars. You could  request she join you in the Approach..."

The Herald snorted. "It's bad enough dragging Solas and Dorian around...you think I want _more_ freedom hungry mages in my group?!"

"She could be of some use," Josephine was unperturbed by his deep scowl. "She is very knowledgeable on matters of the fade and she can sense the blight. I simply think..."

"Enough twittering," the Herald waved his hand in the woman's direction. Josphine stepped backwards, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "I shall think on it..."

If looks could have killed then Leliana would have made the Herald a corpse. Cullen shifted, the spymaster's doubts ringing in his ears. _He is doing what he has to. What none of us can. I do not have to like him for it._ It stung. Words he'd said of Meredith...

"Now," the Herald muttered. "Do you have a report for me, Commander, on this very subject?"

"On...er..."

"The threat of the Hero," the Herald gestured vaguely in the direction of Neria's cellar bedroom. "You have done this, I assume?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Cullen clamped his jaw together, met the man's disapproving glare.

"And in summary?" The Herald drawled, taking the clipboard Cullen proffered but throwing it to the table.

"I do not think her a threat," Cullen squared his shoulders. "First En...Fiona agrees with me."

"I did not ask for Fiona's interpretation, Commander.  I hope her words haven't poisoned your own," he flicked the paper work casually. "In any case, I want someone keeping an eye on her. I shall not have abominations in my fortress."

 _Then the report was pointless. Neria's going to hate this._ Cullen gritted his teeth. "Yes, Inquisitor."


	35. Tranquil

**Part II: The Lion**

* * *

 

"Solas, please calm yourself..." Neria's voice was bouncing off the corridor outside her rooms. "There's nothing to be done."

"Can you imagine a lifetime of nothing! Everything that constituted _you_ , gone ,vanished. He'll be left a husk! I cannot condone it, not even such a man as Alexius deserves that fate."

Cullen stopped. The door to her office was open and anyone could have walked by and heard his words. _It was not eavesdropping. It was hardly private._

"Usually...I would agree," Dorian's drawl. "A barbarous practice... nevertheless having experienced that magic first hand..."

"The mind that made such a magic should not be wiped clean like a filled slate!" Solas said. "It sets a dangerous precedent..."

"On that we concur," Dorian sighed.

"Then we must do something!" said Solas. "Let us not sit idle whilst a fellow mage suffers..."

"Peace!" Neria's voice. "My hands are tied, Solas. I cannot..."

"Petition the King," Solas demanded. "He'll make the Herald see sense."

Neria's laugh held little humour. "Even if I could it wouldn't work, Solas, believe me, any sway I had over that court has long been eaten away."

"Then talk to the Herald, make him see reason..."

"Ah and at the same time shall we ask the sky for less snow, and the wind for less chill?" Dorian snorted. "No, Solas...we are done here..."

"It is his lack of understanding that perpetuates his fear," Solas ploughed onward. "The three of us could make him see the error in his judgement."

"The Herald will not be swayed by immaculate rhetoric," Dorian said. "And even if he were, one word from Vivienne and _poof_...all your hard fought words will disappear."

Still, this speech was not meant for his ears. He feared should it continue into something more rash then he would be forced to take action. Action he really didn't want to take.

"It's an outrage," Solas hissed as Cullen stepped to the boundary of her cellar room and politely wrapped on the open door.

All three of them jumped. Three pairs of eyes swivelled to the door, widened in fear. He had seen that look in mages eyes before. It made his insides squirm.

"Commander," Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. "For a second there I thought..."

"What can I do for you?" Neria spoke quickly over the mage, shooting him with a filthy look.

"I need a word, if...you're not too busy," Cullen's hand went swiftly to his neck. _She's going to hate me for this...and everything had been going so well..._

"Of course," she stood. "Gentlemen, another time, yes?"

"Think on all I said,"  Solas muttered. "We cannot sit by and..."

"Another... time," Neria said, through gritted teeth. She, at least, saw Cullen's predicament. 

"Come on, man," Dorian grabbed the elf by the shoulder. "Do you drink, Solas? I often find at times like this a nice glass of sherry does wonders..."

The Tevinter mage clicked the door shut behind them, but not before giving Cullen an encouraging smile.  

The tiny room she occupied had been tidied since he'd come to question her. The lines of books filled the four walls, ancient tattered texts sat alongside contemporary hide bound tomes. Cobwebs still littered the domed ceiling, candles and vials the ink stained desk. The tang of lyrium settled softly in the air but soap-scented incense did much to disguise it's presence. He sat in one of the armchairs she indicated.

She leaned forwards on her desk and he stopped the pretence of examining the books to hide his discomfort, and looked at her. "Have you had any more nightmares?" she whispered.

 _So it had been...real. Maker's breath._ "I...no," he said.

"Good," she rested back in her chair. "I assume you're for here for business and not the pleasure of my company?"

"Sadly," he said and when she grinned that grin that he found so bewitching, he swallowed. "I do not want to have to do this..."

"Cullen," she was still smiling. "You think I don't already know?"

"What?"

"The Herald has asked you to keep tabs on me," she shrugged.

"Leliana told you?" he winced.

"I am not going to reveal my source," she said, but her smile was smug.

"You're not angry...?"

"Of course I'm angry," Neria sighed. "I'm just glad I'm not hearing the real Calling. The two rather balance one another out."

"Oh...yes...I'm happy you know," Cullen shifted his weight, he was glad he didn't have to be the one to tell her. It tore him in half, walking this line between duty and friendship.

"So..who is it going to be?" she asked. "Not Jenkins I hope...he's a good man but Maker does he like to leer..."

"I hope he's never done more than leer," Cullen said. "If he's hassling you.."

"Oh, no, don't get me wrong, he's harmless in that regard. Brings me little presents," her hand swept to a wilted posey on her desk. "I think he still feels the fool for what he said on the trek here."

"So he should," Cullen crossed his arms. "I'll not have abuse in my army."

"Well aren't you the real hero?" she said. Blood rushed to his face. _Maker...is she...flirting with me? What do I do?!_ He gripped the arm of his chair.

"So..." she was biting her bottom lip. "Who?"

"Who?" _I sound like a bloody owl!_

"Who are you going to choose?" she laughed. "To watch over the beleaguered Warden," she touched her hand to her chest.

"I wanted to ask your opinion," he said. "I thought on Lysette, she's the only female Templar we have, at present."

"So it's to be a constant watch then," she sighed, rolled her eyes. "Maker give me strength, I'm too old for this..."

"Maybe..." he said. "Maybe it doesn't have to be..."

"What do you have in mind?" she tilted her head to one side, exposing the pale line of her throat.

"I..." he broke off, scolding himself for the stupidity of the thought that seared freshly across his min. "No...it's... a poor idea."

"Cullen," she growled. "Tell me what you're thinking..."

"I just...don't think you'd have the time and it's a stupid idea anyway, but there's no-one more experienced and I'd..."

"Cullen."

"Would you be my Lieutenant?" he said, suddenly and when her eyebrow arched upwards, incredulous he continued to talk. "I know you've a lot on your mind at the moment but it would mean you'd be around people all day. There'd have to be checks, of course, just standard procedure...but I...think it could work. You don't have to answer me now...just...think on it." 


	36. Falling, Over and Over and Over and Over Again.

**Part II: The Lion**

_Waking to these sounds again_   
_I wonder how I'll sleep_   
_Passing out is taking off into the stubborn deep_   
_I'd like to meet a human who makes it all seem clear_   
_To work out all these cycles and why I'm standing here_   
_I'm falling_   
_Over and over and over and over again now_   
_Calling and over and over and over and over again now_

_(Morcheeba, Over and Over)_

* * *

"You're a lucky bastard, Commander," Bull grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with his free hand.

Cullen, secretly grateful for the reprieve, still held his guard high, filling his lungs with the cold morning air. "And what makes you say that?"

Bull gasped out laughter  and a second later came swinging. Cullen was ready. Steel bit steel, ringing across the empty courtyard. The Qunari's scarred face loomed above him as their blades crossed. . "You mean, you don't know?"

Cullen ignored him. He'd sparred with Bull before and knew full well the man was not beneath distracting him to beat him. He pressed the attack. Feinting low on the Qunari's blind side and then driving his blade upwards. Bull flew sideways, the steel grazing the leather of his harness.

"Second touch!" Cullen dropped low, ready to parry the charge he expected. "Morning's not your time, Bull."

"Hrmmph," the man grunted, shaking his head. "Those serving girls are worth the loss."

"Giving up already?" Cullen goaded. "I'm just warming up."

"Best of five?" Iron Bull grinned, a terrible sight. "I'm in."

Bull was a good match. Stronger and more disciplined than any man he'd sparred with. The Iron Bull was an apt name; he fought with intimating swings, guttural grunts behind each blow. An observant fighter, despite his lack of an eye. He'd quickly noted Cullen favouring his left leg, an old wound from Kirkwall. He pressed Cullen hard. Made him work for each inch of ground. In full plate the Qunari could have devastated.    

This time blood flung upwards as Cullen's blade scrapped another scar across Bull's skin.

"Ah shit!" Bull grunted, pressing one giant hand to his ribs. "What was I saying about luck?"

"Ha!" Cullen huffed, frozen air frosting between them. "Skill not luck..."

"If you say so," Bull flicked his hand away from the wound in disgust, flinging blood onto the cobblestones. "Arg! It's just a flesh wound...best of seven?"

"Say one thing for the Qunari, say they're stubborn bastards." Despite the hard toil of fighting such a man , Cullen had not felt more relaxed in weeks. He felt loose, like water washed away his aches. Having a blade in his hand was to have a purpose. Having an opponent before him a reason to breathe. Here, he could forget all his troubles and become a sword, sharp and honed and ready for duty.     

"Shields?" Bull asked. "I reckon I could have you on the ground with a decent bash..."

"Not likely," Cullen grinned. "Though I'll let you try..."

Cullen wiped specks of blood from his greatsword before sheathing it at his hip. The two men walked in silence to the armoury.

Cullen shrugged off his furs in the heat of his hard work, wrapping his sheathed sword in his cloak placing it to one side. Bull was already examining the shields on display, knocking on the wood, testing their weight. It was still too early for the Inquisition to be awake and the two men had the weaponry all to themselves.

"Sooo..." Bull began, hefting a circular shield onto his arm. "You and Little Red, eh? Didn't see that coming..."

"What?" Cullen glanced up from the kite shield his fingers were hovering over. "Who?"

"Ah, don't play dumb with me," Bull unstrapped the shield from his arm, grunting in derision. "Bet the two of you screw like rabbits. If I've ever seen a woman who needed a good long..." Cullen cleared his throat, Bull grinned. "Come on, you can't hide it, might as well admit it..."

"Are you ...talking about Neria?"

"I asked her if she fancied a ride," Bull went back to the shields, ignoring him. "You know I'm partial to a red-head or three," the Qunari gave him a look that sent repulsed shudders down Cullen's spine. "She's in the tavern most nights...drank Krem under the table. I was impressed. When she refused my offer, she told me she had her eye on someone already. Thought it was that damn 'Vint that follows her round or maybe even that Holier-Than-Thou elven prick. But I watched her closely," Bull tapped his eye patch.

"You think...Neria and I..."

"I don't think, Cullen," Bull huffed. "I know. The way she looks at you. Hmmm. It's like she's not had a good fu-"

"Enough," Cullen cut across him but Bull made the lewd gesture anyway. "It's not like that..."

"If you say so," Bull shrugged. "But it is for her. If you're not hitting that..." Bull broke off, brow furrowed. "Wait...you're not into the same team...are you?"

"No!" Cullen shook his head. "Maker, no!"

"Yeah, didn't think so," Bull growled. "So, anyway. Come to the tavern tonight. I'll show you what I mean..."

* * *

Cullen was not a vain man. He'd never taken pains over his appearance. It's not that he didn't care what he looked like, simply that he never had time to care, or much of a reason.

His men had the habit of not knocking. Both deadlocks were swung into place before he hesitantly balanced the mirrored surface of his shield against the wall.

He could've pretended to shave, but most of his men had seen him running a razor across his chin without the need for a reflection. _Should I shave?_ He scratched his cheek. Genna had told him a bit of stubble suited him. _Maker...it's been years since I thought of her! Why now?!_

But as his shaking hands ran his fingers through his hair he answered his own question.

She had been that last woman he'd known. It had been sordid, fear-fuelled, a mistake. But she had been all too persuasive and he had been at his wit's end. He'd lain awake with his shame for weeks. Haunted by his own lust. Unable to even look at her and yet yearning for the comfort of her body. She'd died, not long after. When the Arishock had seen fit to make Kirkwall's streets run red.

He breathed deep through his nose, slowly, as the Revered Mother had taught him when panic set in. His lungs responded shakily as the smell of that day, the cloying mixture of smoke and blood, came back to him as a lump in his throat. He could still see her. Lying on the cobbled streets much as she had when she'd been underneath him, legs splayed, head thrown back, arms in an impossible position. 

_Lyrium, Lyrium. Lyrium._

It made his mistakes loom closer. However tight he clenched his teeth against the need. However hard he tried to fight it, disguise it, ignore it, the ache seemed indefinite. And wasn't it a pointless battle anyway? Could he carry on like this forever?   

A sudden, urgent, wrapping at his door and he lurched backwards, stomach still tight, palms sweating against the leather of his hilt.

"Cullen, are you in there?" a muffled voice, but he knew it as well as  his own. "Please..I'm worried. Cole came to find me. He said...he said terrible things...please."

"I'm fine," he grunted, stepping back until his knees hit the desk. "Please just...go away."

A shift, sigh and then..."Don't make me walk through your wall, Cullen!"

His breaths became shallow, desperate pants. Shivering as though with cold and sweating as though with heat. The hand bracing him slipped, useless legs gave out. He thudded against the floor.

"Cullen?!" Her voice almost a screech. "What was that?!"

His heart clenched, beating an out of time rhythm. He gasped, his throat desperately dry, screaming for air.  

 "Bugger this, I'm coming in!"

And then she was knelt before him. Hands clasped around his shoulder. Tilting his head upwards, forcing him to look at her.

"Breathe," Neria whispered. "Slowly....with me."

She kept hold of him. The contact burned but connected him to something present, not his memories of Kirkwall and Kinloch, not his agonies over the uncertain future, but something here and now. He tried to keep time with her, to match her drawn out breaths, to still his galloping heart. She hushed him when breath caught in his throat.

"You're safe, I promise," she said, her hand squeezing his shoulder. "Nothing's going to hurt you here."

"I don't..." he said between gasps. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's alright," she smoothed his brow with her hand. "Just breathe with me. We'll talk when you're ready."

She sat on the floor in front of him, taking hold of his hand. She closed her eyes, exaggerating an in breath, holding it, then exhaling in a long whoosh. "With me," she muttered.

His world became her soft voice guiding him. Her slow melodic count as they breathed together. Her fingers stroking a pattern on his palm. He shifted to sit cross legged and she opened her eyes.

"Better?" she muttered.

He nodded, looking to the floor between them. "I...didn't want you to see me like this...again"

"Cullen," she squeezed his hand. "I want to help you."

"I don't think you can," he said softly, pressing his free hand to his neck. "I don't think anyone can."

"Then it's a good job I have more faith in myself than you do," she shuffled closer, clasping her other hand around his and moving it to her lap. _Maker, she's so warm._ "Will you talk to me? And if not me then someone. I know what it's like to carry war rattling around your head. It's not healthy."

"How did you know?" He whispered.

"Cole..." her mouth tugged downwards. "You're not going to like this..."

"Tell me," he grunted.

"Cole can...read the minds of people when they're in need of help," she said. "He came to find me because he thought you wouldn't like it..."

"I don't like it," he said, snatching his hand back. "What is he, some sort of mage?"

She crossed her arm. "I didn't come here to talk about Cole. I came here to talk about you."

"There's nothing to talk about," he snapped. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me, Cullen," she sounded hurt. "You don't have to hide it...I know what it's like..."

"No," he choked out. "You do _not_ know..."

"Then tell me," she went to try and take his hand again but he shook her off. "I'll stay here all night if I have to. I want to understand..."

"Why?" he gasped.

"Because I care about you," she sighed. "Cullen..."

"You shouldn't," he said, shaking his head. "I don't deserve..."

She hushed him. Her fingers lightly tugging on his arm. "It's not up to you. I'm your friend whether you like it or not." She poked him, teasingly. "Now, let's get off the floor and light a brazier. How do you sleep in this place, it's freezing!"

The room had darkened. He could just make her out, a half form in the twilight. She stumbled to her feet and leaned down to grasp his forearm. She heaved him upwards with a strength that surprised him, guiding him to sit at his desk whilst she rummaged in the blackness.

With a whispered word and an unseen flick of her hand she summoned a fire that spat greedily over the wood. The shadows soon crept away to the edge of the room as she slid into the seat opposite him.

"Will you tell me what happened at Kirkwall?" she asked, the light dancing in her eyes making them seem full of its warmth.

"I don't know if I have the words," he said. "Templars and mages fell. Innocent people fell. I...could have saved them."

"You're too hard on yourself," she said. "I've read Cassandra's report, from what she says you did save lives."

"It's never enough..."

"I know," she whispered. "I see the dead from Denerim in my dreams. There were...hundreds."

"It's a weight..." he said, clenching his hand on his knee. "Especially without the lyrium. I try not to sleep for the nightmares but then they seep into my day."

"I know you don't trust my magic," she muttered. "But I can help you...with the nightmares if nothing else. Will you...let me?

He studied her, as he had a thousand times before. Her mouth slightly open, making her seem breathless, her fingers worrying the ends of her unbound hair, but her eyes were wide with compassion and all for him. _Maker...Bull was right..._

"I think... ," he muttered."I'd like that,"


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of part II! I'm sure Cullen shall make guest appearances in the next two/three parts, but this is the end of his own part. I hope you've enjoyed reading him as much as I've enjoyed writing!

**Part II: The Lion**

* * *

 

Since reaching Skyhold he snatched sleep where he could, usually slumped at his desk halfway through reading a pile of reports. The first night he'd tried the bed he'd lain awake in his silent room, every lump in his mattress an irritation, every worry picked over like a scab. He thought he'd never sleep, until he turned over and smelt her perfume somehow on his pillow. He smiled into the softness, breathing the elusive scent deep.

The first night they'd played checks and talked on a hundred topics. She was so beautiful there, so alive. It was as though years had dropped their weight from her shoulders. He longed to tell her.

The second night she'd sat at his feet, skirts pooled about her waist, stoking a roaring fire. He'd watched her work, her pale features relaxed in the silence. It was easy to fool himself here, pretend that reality was her flower-scented bower, her standing to smooth her skirts, that smile she flashed that made him flush and grin right back.

That dawn he'd awoke with the same grin plastered across his face. He strode into the war room unable to keep the bubbles of joy from rising in his stomach.

"And what has our Commander smiling so?" Leliana stalked from the shadows.

Cullen faltered. He never found it easy to mask his feelings and lies were not part of his nature. This, however, was too private not to disguise. He didn't want the whole world watching them, and the spymaster was the last person he would trust with such a secret. "It's just...a good morning."

Leliana clearly didn't believe him. "I see..."

There was no time for her to probe further. The Herald of Andraste's voice boomed from the hallway, raised in irritation.

"Stop talking in riddles, woman. Speak plainly!" he was shouting.

"If you'd have been listening I would not need to repeat myself." Cullen's smile vanished. _Oh Maker...Neria! Please don't goad him!_

The doors flung open and the Herald flew into the room, chainmail clanking at his ferocious pace. Neria swooped in behind him, livid circles high on her cheeks. Neither stopped to greet him or the spymaster.

"Spit it out, mage," the Herald grunted. "I've not the time for your games."

"I'm trying to help you," Neria hissed right back. "You could at least act grateful!"

"You've done nothing but help yourself since you got here ," the Inquisitor drew himself upwards to sneer down his broken nose. "You eat our food, you sleep under our roof and you contribute nothing!"

The air became suddenly thick with the scent of a storm. Sparks crackled across Neria's balled fist. Cullen's instincts forced him to take a wary step towards her.

"I am trying to help you," Neria repeated teeth gritted. "If you'd just let me speak..."

"Neria," Cullen muttered her name, trying to keep the agitation from his voice.

She whirled on him. He gestured to where electric lit up the silver of her breastplate. For a second he thought she might turn her ire on him. He watched the muscles of her throat work down a swallow, watched her close her eyes, watched her chest move as she took a deep breath.

The sparks died, leaving nothing but the tang of burnt out lyrium.

"Why is there so much shouting?" Josephine stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "Truly, it cannot yet be the sixth hour of the day and already we are arguing!"

Neria crossed her arms across her breastplate. The Herald fiddled with the straps of his longsword. Neither looked at the Antivan woman as she strode into the room. "Come now...you were so eager to be talking not a moment ago."

"I will not trade insults like children," Neria grunted. "I am offering a favour to the Inquisition and I am treated with nothing but hostility."

The Herald went to answer back but the Ambassador held a bejewelled hand up at him. "And what, exactly, are you offering?"

"During my time as Royal Advisor..."

"Is that what they call it," the Herald muttered.

Neria shot him a filthy look before turning back to Josephine. "I was fortunate enough to entertain the Empress on two occasions."

"You believe you can get us an invitation to Halamshiral?" Leliana mused. "None of our warnings have gotten to the Empress. How will you do this thing?"

"It is not the Empress I intend to contact but one...close to her," Neria shrugged. "It will not be a conventional method, there will be no risk of assassination."

"Magic," the Herald said it like a curse. "What type of magic?"

"The ancient kind," Neria said. "Too long forgotten to be forbidden. And fear not...I shall not bring it upon Skyhold."

"You're leaving?" Leliana's voice echoed his own thoughts.

"If the Inquisition wishes this favour," Neria bowed her head in clearly feigned meekness.

The Herald scratched the black thatch of his jaw, the thin line of his mouth twisting."I do not see the harm in it, you have my leave."

* * *

"Why are you being so secretive about it?" Dorian's voice echoed from the library above as Cullen mounted the stairs. "I hate it when you're like this."

"Neria shrouds herself in secrets, it's her armour," Leliana's words sounded smug. "Though you'll let me send an escort..."

"No..."

"Of my most loyal scouts..."

"It's not happening,"

"Just to the Hinterlands..."

"Enough!" Neria's voice echoed loud enough to set the crows into a terrified flight as Cullen entered the room.

She was running her fingers along the spines of the books, her hair braided into a tight bun, armed as though for war. The spymaster and the haughty mage were sharing a look of disbelief behind her back.

"Warden, will you please stop being so stubborn?!" Leliana's usual icy demeanour cracked with the same passion he'd seen the night they named Maxwell the Inquisitor. "If you will not accept help from strangers then let me come with you."

"The Herald will never allow it," Neria's silverite breastplate clinked as she shrugged. "And one may go where two may not."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt," All three of them turned to face him and he felt suddenly sheepish under their collective gaze.

"Commander, perhaps you can talk some sense into our little Hero," Dorian sighed, planting his hands on his hips like a matron. "She can't go out there alone."

"I was out there alone for six years," Neria sighed.

"Any assistance the army can offer is yours," Cullen said. "Though I admit, I'd prefer it if you took a Templar."

Neria's smile didn't falter like he'd expected, she simply shook her head. "I don't think so."

"I will ask the Herald for..." the Spymaster began.

"Leliana," Neria sighed. "Enough, please...I have to do this alone."

"You do not trust me," Leliana crossed her arms. "After everything we've been though."

"That's unfair," Neria reached out but Leliana pulled away.

"Is it?" the spymaster narrowed her eyes. "You left Denerim without a goodbye, even your housekeeper didn't know where you'd gone."

"I needed to leave. Leli, this isn't like back then," Neria sighed. "I promise, I'm coming back."

"You cannot know such a thing," Her voice cracked and she turned her face away from the light. "What if..." she broke off.

Cullen looked to his shuffling his feet, the spymaster's obvious distress made him an uncomfortable intruder. He risked a glance at Dorian, whose eyebrows had shot up into his hair line as his mouth bobbed open and closed as though to form words that would not come.

And then, as quickly as her solemn mask had slipped it was back in place. "You have already made up your mind, no? Fine, I shall not waste my breath..."

"Leli..."

But the Spymaster was already striding the stairs to her attic study two at a time, not turning at the sound of her name or Neria's heavy sigh. "Maker's balls!"

"She worries for you," Cullen muttered once her footfalls and ceased to pound above them. "As do we all."

"It's unnecessary,"  Neria muttered. "I'll be gone two weeks at the most."

"There are Inquisition camps across Ferelden," Cullen began, ignoring her arrow sharp glare. "I'll mark them on your map. You will use them."

"Is that an order, Commander?" she whispered.

 _Maker..._ Cullen felt a familiar restriction in his throat and the temperature of the frozen library seemed to soar. "I err...well.."

"Ha!" Dorian squawked. "Talk about ruining the effect..."

"Dorian," Neria hissed. "Give us a moment would you?"

"But I..."

"Please," Neria said, teeth clamped together with stress. "I'll meet you at the gate."

Dorian's eyes swooped over them both before he threw his hands in the air like a thespian. "Fine, I know when I'm a third wheel."

Cullen watched the mage saunter off with a growing apprehension. He reached for his neck unconsciously, looking anywhere but those storm coloured eyes roving over his face. She took a step closer, the tips of her boots tucked together at the top of his vision. He swallowed.

The silence of the library was suddenly broken by a caw from above. Cullen felt the noise shudder up his spine and a moment later Neria's soft laughter was filling his ears. "Do I still put you on edge?"

"I...er..." he muttered. "I'm just..." he lowered his voice. "I wanted to say goodbye." He looked at her then, just for a second, saw the sly grin working her way up her cheek. "I'll...miss you," he admitted, wondering why in the name of Andraste he was saying such a thing but knowing it was true and that if he didn't say it now then it would burst from him.

"Cullen?" Maker he liked it when she said his name. She stepped a little closer. She didn't smell of her starlit perfume but of soap and underneath that the dusty trace of lyrium. His mind began to spin a little. "Will you look at me?"

He did. The sun was high in the sky and triangles of light fell through the window to settle among her hair like jewels. A silvery scar he had never noticed before ran the length of her cheek, only distinguishable from her cream skin because of the wintery light. His eyes traced the scar to where it was being tugged into her smile.

And she stepped even closer and he could feel the warmth of her, despite the chill of the day and the thickness of his breastplate. And she was close enough that he was going crosseyed trying to watch her and he was just thinking how stupid he must look when that silvery scarred cheek pressed against his stubble. "I'll miss you too," she whispered and Cullen felt it as a finger of desire down his spine. And then her lips pressed against his cheek for a second that was all too fleeting.

"I'll see you soon, Cullen."  

Hours later his cheek still burned where she'd touched him. 


	38. Siren Song

**Part III: The Warden**

_Come closer. This song,_

_is a cry for help: Help Me!_

_Only you, only you can_

_you are unique,_

_at last._

_(Siren Song, Margaret Atwood)_

* * *

 

For weeks the song had split in two. The ever present voice, the hum of the tainted skulking in the old roads, the sibilant siren of a her own dirge. Then, one night as she tried to sleep, this other melody branched out from the choir. And this second song, this solo symphony, unnerved her more than the Calling ever could.

Because it was coming closer.

Neria became sick of waiting. And so she made her excuses and rode out to meet whatever came. Because she knew that it was coming for her. And it would not balk at high stone walls or splattering them with innocent blood. It would not stop until it found her. Or she found it.

She took pains to shrug off the scouts sent to follow her. They were cautious to keep their distance but Neria was used to being followed. She led them down false trails where her footsteps would disappear into the snow settled wilderness.

She marched through the night, not daring to sleep, knowing that the tainted thing would need no such sustenance. And when the red fingers of dawn appeared over the plains of the Hinterlands the song swelled to such a racket that her mind span with the noise. Whatever it was remained in one place since she'd started her journey towards it. Her own tainted song, no doubt, echoing in its ears.

The siren led her hunched form into the foothills. The jagged line of the Frostbacks loomed like the spires of the Black City, ever present at her side like an old friend, as she picked her way across boulders and rock falls. When she came across the mouth of a cave she stopped, feet itching to bolt, skin already crawling with the corruption that tainted the very air.

 She had arrived.

It would not venture out in the blinding pale sun, however cold its distant rays. She could wait, eat, maybe snatch a second of sleep, but her stomach was tied in knots with the song and the smell and her mind overflowed with memories of the Deep Roads. Waiting would do nothing but give her time to ruminate. So with a heavy sigh she summoned a flame and plunged into the smoking blackness.

* * *

"You have come."

A mouth that should never have spoke formed gravelly, guttural, words. She flicked her wrist and the flames split off from her hand, lighting the cavern in their flickering orbs. It looked like the others had. A blackened lipless mouth pulled back over teeth sharp as steel. Where a man would have a nose two holes sucked in air with a death rattle. Its eyes were lidless like a lizards, blank and unfeeling. It shied away from her magic as she forced the floating fires to burn brighter.

"What do you want, darkspawn?" she bit down on the disgust. After years of bathing in the tainted blood of these creatures she still found her throat constricting at their corruption.  

"I am The Shepherd,"  he lisped and spat. "I have come to guide you."

She grunted, worked her tongue around her dry mouth."Where is your master?" she asked. "I would have words with him."

"It is known," he muttered. "We have sensed you probing, groping uselessly for answers. I am your summons."

 She said nothing. There was no need to affirm anything for this disciple. He would know what his master allowed him and nothing more. She stared at the beast, fascinated by the gruesome sight of his stretched skin, glinting like scales in the harsh light. His creation, his existence, quaked at her core. Separated from the hive mind by blood, the blood of her brothers; as she had joined it, with the blood of his kin. A bitter irony to swallow.

"We shall journey by night," he grunted. "I shall watch whilst you rest."

She shook her head. "I cannot rest in your company." It was not simply that she didn't trust the thing but its song was a restless whine making her blood into a war drum, urging her to kill. She dared not shut her eyes in such a state.

"I shall retreat and come again at nightfall."


	39. Dreams and Disciples

Part III: The Warden

 _She ran, legs pounding up the spiral stairs, heart galloping, mouth dry from gasping in the wintery air._ Don't look back, _she chanted in the recess of her mind._ Don't look back. _She slammed into the first door, sped like an arrow across the chambers, mind reeling, lungs burning ._ Don't look back. _She skidded into the hallway, past the apprentice cells, over the corpses of faceless men, bare feet slipping in their long cold blood._

 _Up and up she fled, a terror in her stomach that was nothing more than the words_ don't look back. _She didn't question the instinct that drove her on, didn't question what she was fleeing from or why, she just flew, her feet a blur beneath her._

_She slammed the door to the top floor closed and everything shifted._

_The terror that had been so inescapable subsided almost instantly. Her breath came back to her at once. She was no longer bare-foot and clad in only a night gown but fully armed and armoured and, it seemed, conscious and utterly aware._

_And that awareness told her she had slipped from one dream and into another._

_And it was familiar._

_Shadows moved around a figure she recognised with a sinking heart. He was slumped in prayer, shoulders sagging under Order armour, smaller than ever, curled in on himself as his memories haunted him.  "Maker, my enemies are abundant," Cullen's voice crackled like dry parchment. "Many are those who rise against me..."_

_She banished the shadows with a wave of her hand but still he could not look at her. "But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion."_

_"Cullen," she said, his name a powerful thing in the Fade. "Cullen...it's me..."_

_His tortured eyes raised to meet hers with a heavy slowness. "Not this trick again..." he sounded so tired."Begone..."_

_She knelt in front of him, stayed silent. She had played this part before, she would have to be patient._

_"That always worked before," he muttered, face crumbling._

_She tugged and pulled and tore Kinloch Hold away. The smell of death was swept aside in a wave of lyrium and incense. The darkness of the thick stone walls was banished by high windows; squares of light rippled on the carpet between them. Cullen sighed, relaxed, tipping forwards with his head in his hands. "They're getting worse."_

_"It's bound to happen," she muttered. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."_

_"I'm surprised you came out all," he said, running his fingers over his thatch of blonde hair. "I thought this only worked when you were close."_

_She shifted, unsure of how much to tell him and deciding on the truth; there were enough lies festering between them. "I was dreaming of Kinloch too."_

_"Ah...I see," he shook his head, exasperated. "Well...actually I don't see but I'm tired of trying to understand your magic."_

_She laughed despite herself. "Probably best to give in now. Not even I fully understand."_

_"That's comforting," he muttered, rolling his eyes then running his hands across his face. "Leliana was furious at those scouts you know..."_

_"Tell her not to be so hard on them, I'm used to being evasive..."_

_"I'd noticed," he straightened, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where you are?"_

_"Of course not," she smiled. "I can't spill all my secrets at once."_

_"Just...come back safe to us?" A grin crept up the side of his face. "Alright?"_

_"I'll do my utmost," she grinned right back. "You're welcome here any time. But I have to go." She could feel the Shepherd's taint creeping towards her wards._

_"So soon?" he sounded disappointed and her stomach fluttered at the thought._

_"You do realise it's still day time," she teased as she stood. "The Commander of the Inquisition asleep at his desk? Whatever would the Herald think?"_

_"Maker's breath," he sighed._

* * *

 

Even by the dim starlight she could see where the ground withered where it walked. The silver painted reeds of the Hinterlands became black and dry and tainted underneath the tread of its boot. She followed in these gruesome steps, not able to stomach striding next to the darkspawn with her head ring like a bell at a wake.

It could see better than her in the moonless night or perhaps it was guided to their destination by a song she could not hear. It took each step with ceaseless purpose, ignoring roads, wading into streams, climbing rock faces, no obstacle was too great for its relentless nature. By the time half the night was done Neria's boots were soaked and her feet numb, her pack dug grooves into her shoulders and her stomach growled, unsatisfied by the salted biscuits she chewed as she stumbled onwards. As she crested the last of a series of hills her breath was coming in short, sharp pants and the old wound at her hip was aching as though torn anew. She shrugged off her pack and slumped to the ground, bones as weary as the grave.

The darkspawn kept a respectful distance as she rifled through her pack, but she could feel its stare as she gulped from her skin of water and tore like a beast into her ration of bread and cheese.

"You tire quickly," it spoke. "My master will not like waiting."

She did not need to make excuses for herself. She swallowed her food, slowly and deliberately. "Why did you choose your name, 'the Shepherd' seems an odd choice?"

For a long time the darkspawn did not answer. She shrugged, crunching the leaf wrap that had protected her food in her palm and scattering the fibres to the floor. Sighing, with limbs aching, she stood and flung her pack onto her shoulders. It didn't move to lead. Its eyes shone, black and small and piercing like gimlets.

It was a still night. Not even high above the Hinterlands did a wind stir. The silent stars were the only ones to scrutinise the strange tableau of Warden and darkspawn. Neria fidgeted, felt her palm wrap around the dirk hidden at the small of her back, uncomfortable under its predatory gaze whilst at the same time struck by its sudden humanity. The way its black eyes roved across her face, a crease at its brow almost hidden by the scars and the dark, the small sounds of spit crackling in its maw as it tongue moved as though to speak.

 "I live to guide my lost brothers towards knowing," he said. "As I shall guide you. That is why I am called the Shepherd."

* * *

 


	40. You

**Part III: The Warden, The Lion**

* * *

 

She knew they had arrived, not by the slowing in the Shepherd's pace, not by the great thrumming rocks of red lyrium, nor by the nostalgic mine, long abandoned to the  spiders whose corpses stank up the tunnels. She knew it by the song. The great and sudden surge that filled her mind so suddenly she almost toppled to the ground. The Shepherd turned to watch her right herself with a cold dispassion.

"Quickly," he muttered.

Down they went. Into the very bowels of the earth. The tunnels were unknowable in the dark, with only the song and the shuffling footsteps of the Shepherd to guide her. The air became close, tight, and tinged with a heat that rolled over her in great waves. She stopped to shrug off her cloak, wet with snowmelt and sweat.

She could not say for how long they walked, time stood still in the dark, seconds crept to endless seconds. The skittering of insects and the thrumming of the song were persistent, easing her into a state of illusion. She could not tell how far away the threat with the sounds echoing from everywhere. Eventually, when she could stand the darkness no more ,she plunged her hand into the fade and lit the caverns with veil fire.

The skittering stopped. Neria's instinct left the veil fire to hover and she drew her long sword without thinking. Eyes, hundreds of eyes, watched her from the gloom of the cavern and her ears pounded with their song. She shifted, ready to spring upon the first darkspawn that came within the arc of her blade. They didn't move. The Shepherd shielded himself from the glare of her fire as he stalked towards her, the long shadow of his arm reaching across the stony rocks between them. "They will not harm you," his voice grumbled. "They recognise you for what you are."

Neria did not drop her guard. "And what do they think I am?"

He made a terrible sound. A sound she'd long ago learned to fear. The deep guttural booms caught on the caverns and soon the whole hoard were laughing. She shuddered.  Shuffled her footwork to face the mocking Shepherd, wondering how she'd thought it human. Her steel glinted dangerously in the glow of fade fire.

"You," he grinned, showing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "Are home, Sister."

* * *

"You," she said, sauntering into his office like she owned the damned place. "Are never at the tavern."

Cullen closed his eyes and dropped the quill he was holding to glare at her. "It would be unseemly of me to be drunk with the men..."

"Ah, yes of course...the loneliness of command and all that wank."

He flinched at her crudeness as he always had and when she saw him flinch she cackled, as she always had. "Still not used to me, are you Knight Captain?"

"I am no longer Knight Captain..."

"And I'm not a bloody hawke but everyone just insists," she smiled, cheeks dimpling on the mockery of innocence that was Catrin Hawke's face. "Come on then, you're not stuck to that desk I take it?"

"I've a ton of paperwork I must..."

"How very droll, Knight Captain," she rolled her electric eyes and gestured to the door. "I promise, a drink will do you good. Varric says you've been locked up here like some sort of hermit!"

"I've been...unwell," he said. "I don't think..."

"A stiff shot of rum will do you wonders then!" she approached his desk with the swagger of confidence that he'd always found intimidating. It was a confidence well earned, after all she had fought for. "Don't make me lose my rag with you, Knight Commander. I'm a beast when I'm angry." She tapped her nails against his desk.

Cullen lounged back in his chair and sighed. She'd ever been impossible, the Champion of Kirkwall, and he was hardly in the mood to face her mabari-like tenacity. "Very well," he sighed. "If you're so bored as to seek out my company I may have some work for you."

"Oh really?" those ice-blue eyes widened. "Just like old times, eh?" She kicked the chair out from under his desk and without ceremony dropped herself into it. "Spill it then, Knight Captain. What errand would you have the Champion of Kirkwall run and most importantly..." she leaned forward on his desk. "What's the pay?"

"I would have you keep this a secret..."

"Secrets cost double," she grinned. "Out with it, then, before I change my mind."

Cullen hesitated. Hawke was the best woman for the job, with tracking skills akin to those of her namesake. If anyone could find her...protect her from herself...it would be Hawke. What troubled him was the Champion's crafty side; though she'd always honour a bargain she did so whilst skirting around the rules and, on more than one occasion, making more trouble than she solved. If it got back to anyone that he'd sent her on this mission...it could be dangerous for both of them.

"Spit it out, Knight Captain," she said.

And, against his better judgement, he did.    


	41. Shattered and Hollow

**Part III: The Warden**

_Now I am tired, but resolute_

_that I'd rather be_

_striving than settled._

_Oh, I'd rather be_

_moving than static._

_I'd rather be, by your side._

_(Shattered and Hollow, First Aid Kit, Stay Gold)_

* * *

An army. There wasn't another word for it. A horde implied they were mindless, in thrall to a greater being, and they were not. A mob implied they were ill-equipped, driven by a burning need, and they were not. An army, then. The word lodged in her throat as she stalked by their ranks, still gripping her longsword, feeling their eyes on the back of her neck like white-hot needles.

"I bid you welcome, Sister..."

The Architect's stretched out face seemed indifferent to time, its marble skin as cold and unmarred as at their first meeting, so many moons ago. The golden ribcage of his armour was untarnished, as was the thin band of metal that shaded his eyes and swept into the misshapen horn on his crown. It was as though he'd stepped from the past, unchanged, but for the disciples he kept close.

It was all she could do to whisper, her throat still contracting around her terror.  "What have you done?"  

He was not taken aback, his cool demeanour unbroken. _Do not toy with him,_ Fiona had warned, _he is more powerful than he allows you to see._ "I have done only what I promised. You are...upset with me?" His voice never strayed to passion.

"I..." she took a deep, shuddering breath, her skin crawling with the taint. "This was not what I expected..."

The darkspawn were eerily silent, like the statues guarding the vaults of great Thaigs. It was more unnerving than had there been sound, any sound but their song. "You expected me to cease my experiments?"

Had she? Had she really? A part of her wanted to cower under ignorance, to pretend that she hadn't known the darkspawn's intentions, to pretend that she'd let it live to prevent more bloodshed. The lie rang hollow even to her ears. She said nothing.

"For a long time I have sensed you searching," it said. "And now you are here you are silent."

She held her longsword straight, the Architect's chest a leap away from the its deadly point. She swallowed, let the image of his death wash over her. She would fall, but wasn't that the death stamped upon her soul? She gripped the hilt.

 _Come back safe to us._ Cullen's voice. And the rough sensation of his stubble against her cheek. The way he made her squirm with discomfort and pleasure all at once. _Come back safe to us._

And she wanted to. Maker, she wanted nothing more than to shrug off this duty, to retreat back to whatever it was that had kindled between them. But they were both more than just mage and templar now. She had her own task and she must fulfil it.

She would have answers.


	42. Noble Motives

**Part III: The Mage**

_"Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest of motives."_

_Oscar Wilde_

* * *

He waited for the thin band of light eking under the spymaster's door to finally be snuffed out. He took excruciating pains to avoid the floorboard that creaked outside her room and to keep each step light and airy as a summer breeze. Not that he was afraid of the woman. If she stormed from her quarters now at the sound of his foot scraping the bare boards then she would have no evidence whatsoever.

Not that it would prevent the Herald from sniffing out his guilt. He banished that thought from his mind as he reached the door to the great hall.

It wouldn't creak. He'd made a compliant of it to a passing servant and over saw the oiling of the hinges with his own two eyes. He stepped from the shadows of the corridor and into the gloomy light of the balcony and he suddenly knew he was not alone.

He stayed still and silent, searching for the something that made his senses tingle. A rustle from beneath him, followed by a sigh. A sound that had irked him so often over campfires that he could almost see the deep lines of the Seeker's scowl.

"There was nothing you could have done."

Dorian's eyebrow cocked itself. He'd always had a fine ear for intrigue, how not? The Orlesians may call their courtly secret swapping the Great Game, but it was child's play compared to the dangers of the Tevinter court. He slunk low, and waited among the shadows.

From between the banisters he could see her leonine pacing, her hands ruffling the unruly crop of blackness that she saw fit to call her hair. "You cannot blame yourself for this, you must let it go before it eats you alive."

Dorian's ears were prickling to hear more but a silence settled over the Seeker and shadows thoroughly cloaked whoever she spoke to. His window of opportunity was slowly closing and he would be damned before he let a yearning for gossip overcome the plans he'd put in place for weeks. With a resigned heart he slunk back into the darkness.

He was passing Vivienne's empty desk, where starlight poured in like molten silver across the fine Orlesian rugs, when someone cleared their throat beneath him and the shock of recognition held him still again.

"You are kind to say these things, Cassandra," a man's voice that made Dorian's jaw drop unwittingly. "But they are empty words. I played my part in her crimes and I...I cannot let it rest."

He cursed internally. Torn. To have some juicy piece of gossip over the Herald of Andraste...now wouldn't that be a fine thing. But if he lingered too long the guards would make their nightly rounds and though he was allowed freedom of the castle he was well aware that it was granted at the Herald's temperamental leisure. 

He risked a final glance at the pair and was shocked to find the Seeker's form reaching out across the table to take the Inquisitor's hand in her own.

A wry smile was still on his lips as he slipped into stairwell and he was suppressing laughter by the time he reached the tunnel underneath the hall _. The Herald and the Seeker sharing a candlit confessional...I really should stalk these walls at night more often!_

He tried not to let his good mood go to his head. Even the underbelly of the fortress was well manned and should he be found down here excuses would be harder to come by. He edged his way to his destination, passed the snoring from of the cook and her obstacle course of bottles, passed doorways that led to still unknown parts of the castle, passed the dreary paintings that hung in the hallway outside her office.

As he stepped into the torchlight his good mood vanished. The lock he had been expecting to magic open had already been picked; he could see the scraping against the brass where an inexpert hand had fumbled. Cautiously he pressed his ear to the wood.

A rustle, parchment hissing against parchment. _Drat._ Somebody had got here first and they were still inside. He swallowed, plunging his hand through the veil, hoping to the Maker that there were no Templars near enough to feel the tear, and with his free hand he swung open the door.

The elf sat casually behind her desk wearing the silver tabard and deep green doublet of a page; but he was most certainly not the servant his dress purported him to be. His booted feet were propped up on the desk as though he belonged here and he didn't look up from the documents he was examining even when Dorian cleared his throat pointedly.

"Who are you?" Dorian hissed. "And, I hate to be an utter cliché, but what are you doing in the Hero's office?"

In a languid, almost bored, gesture the elf threw the clipboard to the desk and turned his honey coloured eyes on Dorian. "Now, my friend, could I not ask you the same questions?" His voice was a melody of shores sunnier than this one and Dorian sundered the veil anew, lightning crackling across his palms.

"I should call the guards..."

The elf's eyes flicked to his hand and a sly, and Dorian had to admit, demonically charming smile quirked up his lips. "Now, we would not want you to do something so rash."

"You're an assassin!" Dorian hissed. "A Crow..."

"Come now!" the elf swung his boots off the desk and to the floor, but did nothing more menacing. "Not all Antivan's are assassins you know."

"I should..." Dorian muttered. "I should call the guards."

"Ah, truly?" the elf shrugged. "And here was I thinking we could warm to one another."

"Don't try and charm me, elf," Dorian's spell fluttered. His boasts of screaming to the guards had a hollow ring. "Answer my questions."

"My, my," the elf wriggled enticingly in Neria's seat. "You are a very bold man to threaten one you presume to be a Crow."

"Are you not?" Dorian said, stepping into the room but not letting down his guard.

"Honestly?" the laughter lines wrinkled up his tanned cheeks. "I am perhaps the only former Crow you'll have the delight to meet."

"And what line of profession does a former Crow take?" Dorian asked, biding his time.

He chuckled, a deep and rich sound. "Ah, my dear, I am still very much an assassin."

Dorian's stance shifted, expecting to fight."And dare I ask who you're here to kill?"

"Kill?" the assassin looked perplexed. "Hopefully not tonight, my friend. Could you shut the door, there's a terrible draft."

The elf's lower half was hidden by the clutter-strewn desk but he'd never have passed for a servant bearing arms. This, in his experience, meant very little when it came to assassins. He could have a hundred different deaths hidden, waiting to be administered with that warm, compelling smile.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Dorian said, eventually succumbing to his inkling that this stranger might not be his foe.

"Such a commanding tone, how could I resist," the elf raised his arms slowly, the sleeves of his green doublet falling to reveal lean arms patterned with tattoos. "Will the handsome man tell me his name now?"

Dorian did not turn his back on the elf, fumbling for the door without breaking eye contact. It clicked shut behind him. "I think you should go first...former Crow."

"Is that not enough for you to know me?" the elf scoffed. "Surely you've heard the stories..."

Dorian snorted incredulously. "I doubt it..."

"Oh...is this not the Hero of Ferelden's office?" the elf grinned. "I am sure she must have spoken about me, yes?"

"She's...not actually all that keen on talking about her past..." Dorian said. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Truly?" the elf, hands still in the air, clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "She is changed so much." The elf's constant smile tugged downwards. "Where is she then?"

"You haven't answered my question...who are you?"

"I..." the elf twirled his palms, making Dorian flinch towards the fade, but the elf simply used them to frame his bowed head. "Am Zevran Arainai, Spymaster and...Personal Assistant to King Alistair the First of Ferelden. It is a pleasure to meet you."

 


	43. Plans

Part III: The Warden, The Mage

* * *

Her sword arm shook as she pointed the blade directly at the Architect's throat. In a flurry of steel the darkspawn drew their weapons. Bows creaked, metal sliced against air and Neria Surana growled deep in her throat, ignoring the creeping sensation that this would be her final act. "What is you purpose...why have you done this thing?"

The Architect shook its head solemnly. "Put down your blade and let us speak..."

"We are speaking now," she shouted, patience lost with the foul taste of her duty. "Answer me or the void won't hold me back!"

Slowly, with the elegance of a court trained dancer, the sentient darkspawn lifted his silver, branch-like arms and splayed his fingers as though to show her that nothing hid between them. "I beseech you, Sister, to hear me out."

"I gave you a chance," she hissed, still holding her stance but not advancing to attack. "Ten years ago, I let you live...and now look what you've done..."

"I have saved Ferelden," he said, dispassionate and cold. "Where are your kin, Warden? Drawn to the darkness by this false Call. Such an easy toppling of once great beings. A vacuum is created...how now will you face a Blight...?"

"What are you saying?" she spat. "The Wardens have been corrupted by a darkspawn not unlike yourself..."

"Corypheus," the Architect said.

"You know him," she said. "Why am I not surprised?"

"We have all heard his song, Sister," the Architect sighed. "He is...an anomaly."

"An anomaly!" Neria's voice was echoing around the caverns but she didn't care. "So you expect me to believe that you're not cut from the same cloth?"

"I have told you before I do not know how I came to be," it said. "Perhaps I am the same as this Corypheus, if so I do not recall."

"A likely story," she hissed. "And rather than attempt to stop him you lingered in the shadows, turning these," she gestured with her free hand to the surrounding darkspawn, "creatures into an army..."

"They will be the new Wardens."

A cold sweat started at the base of her neck and dripped between her shoulder blades. Her arm became heavy with the weight of her sword. A sigh of disbelief, of sorrow, of anger, forced its way from her lips.  "No..."

"They will serve as the Grey served; peace, vigilance, justice...."

" _They are darkspawn!_ " she screamed, unable to control her brimming rage. "They are what the Wardens fight!"

A rustling from the shadows to her left and she cut an arch through the air. When the figure emerged into the high light of the orbs she had to bite down on her tongue. _It's not possible.._

"Warden Commander," the old man grinned, a man whose life should have been done years ago. His face was withered with the ravages of time and taint but he was whole, alive, unbowed by the weight of what must have been a century.

"You..." she hissed.

* * *

"So...where is she, Dorian of house Pavus?" the elf that named himself Zevran lounged in her armchair as though made from liquid. "This is where she usually sleeps, is it not?" He gestured to the cot tucked between two bookshelves.

"Why do you want to know?" Dorian slunk into the armchair opposite, mimicking the elves fluidity. "You are an agent of the King, you say?"

"I do say," he purred. "And the King would very much like to know his friend is safe. _I_ would very much like to know my friend is safe." He tilted his head to one side as though he'd asked a question.

Dorian, his plans of subterfuge and secret gathering shattered by the presence of this arrogant sod, raised his shoulders delicately and let them fall in a shrug. "I don't know where she is."

"I think Dorian of House Pavus is lying to me," something shifted behind those intriguing amber eyes. "You come here to snoop among my friend's things...why?"

"Ha!" Dorian couldn't help himself. "A little ironic of you isn't it? At least _I_ have every right to be here...you are a Ferelden spy!"

Zevran sighed. "Fine, I shall be forthright with you, Dorian of house Pavus," he said, beckoning him closer. Dorian had half a mind to tell him he was moved by no man's finger but curiosity held his wit at bay and he shuffled his chair closer to the desk to hear the elf's whisper. "I am not here alone."

The sound of steel being drawn sliced up Dorian's spine. He started to turn to face his attacker but before he could even summon a spell a sharp coldness was at his throat.

"Be still," a familiar voice whispered in his ear. "And we shall have no need to harm you."

 _You bitch! You underhanded, deceitful bitch,_ was what he wanted to say, but he was very aware of the dagger tight against his throat, poised as though the Spymaster thought to shave him.

"Do not be rough with him, Leliana. He's a handsome thing..."

"Arg, trust you to be thinking about that now," the Spymaster sighed but her blade didn't waver. "Tell us why you're here Dorian...what has Neria asked of you?"

On other days, at other times, Dorian may very well have spat obscenities at such audacity. The two rogues were as guilty as he for sneaking into her office and rifling through her secrets. Against lesser opponents he may have thrown the dice to test their resolve. The Spymaster however...she was not a woman to bet against and this was most certainly not how he intended to die. "Difficulty...speaking..." he muttered, gesturing to her blade. "Let...go...tell...everything," he said, trying not to slice his own throat with his speech.

She eased her grip a little, enough that Dorian could breathe. "Talk," she barked.

"Not under duress," he said. "Remove your blade from my throat, woman."

"Do it," Zevran waved his hand lazily. "He's no threat."

"You are not in charge," Leliana grunted over his head.

"Oh for Maker's sake," Dorian hissed, "Can't you see we're all on the same bloody page? You're here to help the Hero, yes?"

Metal bit into his skin. Dorian couldn't help the surprised yelp, as undignified as it was. Leliana's breath was hot against his ear. "If I find you lying to us, do not think I will hesitate."

"I...don't," he hissed.

"Leliana," the Antivan said her name softly. "Let him go, yes? He is clearly an ally."

The pressure vanished from Dorian's throat and he immediately raised his palms to the wound. "You nicked me!"

"Just a scratch," she muttered. "Do not make me do worse."

Dorian had never been fond of the sight of his own blood. He stared at the redness on his fingertips with horror. "Unnecessary!"

"We shall see," she said and he felt her step away from him. "Speak. Why are you here?"

He scowled over his shoulder, wincing as the thin cut strained. "I am worried for Neria."

"Speak more specifically, what has you worried?"

"You're not going to like it," Dorian huffed. "She told me she received a letter."

"She has not..." Leliana said. "I read all her correspondence."

"You've turned into a control freak, my dear." Zevran said. "You need to relax..."

"It was not...a conventional letter," Dorian muttered seeing the two rouges exchange a wary glance. "She found it in the Fade. And then she ups and leaves a day later...telling us she is going to contact the Empress. And..." Dorian stopped, not sure of how far to trust these people.

"And what?" Leliana grunted.

"Now this is going to sound...a little odd," Dorian winced. "And really it's not at all what you think..."

"I'll decide what I think," Leliana crossed her arms. "Out with it."

 "I...er...heard her talking in her sleep."

The Antivan's palm slapped against the table and he careened forwards making a choking sound that Dorian belated realised was laughter. He glared as the elf no longer suppressed his merriment but spilled back into Neria's chair, cackling like a fish wife. "Oh, you'll have to excuse me, my friend...but you and she are not lovers. You are far from her type."

Dorian crossed his arms, not slightly bristled by this elves brash dismissal of his well crafted form. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with me?"

"Oh, I do not think anything is wrong with you," the Antivan leered. "But Neria likes her men thick skulled and chisel jawed and you...though incredibly handsome ...do not fit the bill."

"Can you please stop flirting for one second," Leliana hissed from behind him. "We are supposed to be working!"

"And what...I cannot have a little fun whilst we work?" the Antivan sighed. "Come now, Leliana. Do not be so... po-faced."

Leliana ignored him, moving to stand in front of the desk and bracing her hands on the arms of his chair. She leaned in close enough for Dorian to smell the tang of oil she used keep her leathers supple. "What did she whisper in her sleep?"

Dorian met the frosty coloured glare with a smarmy grin. "She said she was looking for an architect."

Zevran Arainai, supposed assassin and spymaster, sputtered a laugh for the second time that evening.

"You mean The Architect," Leliana said, still leant over him. "This is very important now, Dorian, did she say an architect or The Architect..?"

"Leliana," Zevran said recovering himself, but the woman's gaze did not leave Dorian's face. "Why in the name of Andraste would our dear Warden search the fade for an architect. Perhaps she has some magical structural damage, no?"

"You have spent too much time with Alistair," Leliana muttered. "Sarcasm is beneath you."

"He clearly misheard," Zevran said. "If her task is to seek a cure to the blight then this would naturally lead her to the Architect."

Dorian could contain his impatience no longer. "Who in Andraste's name is the Architect!"


	44. Torn

Part III: The Warden 

* * *

 

"You did not come here simply to berate our cause, I presume?" Avernus' grin was terrifying, wrinkling his thin skin, he looked a man held up by determination alone. "I know what you seek."

She looked down her blade at him and he licked his thin, bloodless lips.

"I can give it to you, Warden," his voice crackled. "If you put down you blade and listen to our price."

"A further price than this," she said. "I sought you for ten years! You promised me knowledge before and did not deliver, why should I bargain with you now?"

"We are running out of time," the Architect said. "You will help us and we will reward you with the power to free yourself."

"So these darkspawn can take up the duty," she muttered. "The Warden's duty..."

"Don't you see how marvellous that is...?" Avernus gestured to the assembled darkspawn. "They will keep the blight at bay..."

"They will spread the blight wherever they tread," Neria hissed.

"For the greater good!" Avernus' voice sounded like shattering glass. "So others would not have to suffer as we have suffered, as all Wardens have suffered."

"And what of your prior failed experiments," she whirled on the Architect. "The destruction they caused..."

It raised a hand and she sputtered into silence. "We have learned to spot these errors early and...eradicate them."

"Eradicate," she said, half laughing with despair. "So you claim to help enlighten them, to give them awareness and then when they turn on you...you...eradicate them!"

"You are blinded by your compassion," Avernus said softly. "It is as necessary a sacrifice as the Joining."

Neria wanted to scream. The world was not done tying her in knots of twisted logic and she was sick of hearing excuses for lunatic plans that paved the way to the void. Her two duties slammed together. Her blood screamed at her to kill until she took her last breath, but her head pleaded with her to be cautious. She needed that cure. It would not mend the bridges she had burned but it would help her sleep at night. Hating herself for it, feeling like her very soul was torn by the choice, she lowered her blade.

"What would you have of me?"

* * *

 


	45. Drunken Lullabies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the people who are sticking with this story, despite my irregular updates! Mega, huge cookies dipped in Nutella for all of you! I promise I shall endeavour to update more frequently from now on, and not in bursts of five or six chapters at a time!

**Part III: Birds**

_I sit in and dwell on faces past_   
_Like memories seem to fade_   
_No colour left but black and white_   
_And soon will all turn grey_

_(Flogging Molly, Drunken Lullabies)_

* * *

 

Though the sun was weak, up here on his plateau, he could feel it straining to melt the snow. It had been worth the climb, weighed down by his leathers and pack, his daggers and fur lined cloak, to have such a warmth on his cheeks again. He was not a man made for these frosty peaks and he'd be glad enough to return to the vague spring that had begun to settle on the lands below.

The vantage gave him sight of the road leading to the looming silhouette of Skyhold, even lounged as he was against a boulder, one arm idly dangling off the drop, his pack within arm's reach in case he was spotted. The guards that watched from the walls would not see him behind the rocks and from here they were as insects, small and helpless. A band of soldiers had returned an hour before, clanking and muttering, too tired to take note of the lithe elf above. Other than that the roads had been silent and still. And it gave him time to reflect.

And not for the first time he wondered what in the world he was doing back here.

Of course, he knew his task. Alistair had been unerring as a desert wind on that account. Fulfilling it had proved tiresome. Weeks in the saddle followed by days freezing in this wasteland tracing the breaths of a rumour. And when Skyhold had finally been infiltrated, at the price of one serving boy's life and the frostbite he had endured cleaning the blood from his uniform, he'd found his mark had vanished.

It was so like Neria. He had always been chasing her, just out of reach, since the moment they met. Even after the blight, even when he'd fulfilled his promise to return to her side, she kept him at a distance behind her stony Warden facade. There had only been once when he'd peaked behind that mask and his teeth gritted at the memory even as he buried it. He did not want to think of his bold Warden like that. It made him on edge for the woman she'd become.

He was granted a distraction as the faint sounds of the gate being opened echoed off the rocks and drew his eye. A figure shrouded in black, as small as his fingernail, came trudging out into the settled snow. _Ah, excellent,_ he glanced at the sky, _and not a moment too soon._

He did not descend however, but slowly stood, threw back his shoulders to crunch his spine, flexed both his fingers and toes and smiled down at the view like a Prince might surveying his lands. His adopted home was truly beautiful. Rugged, like it's people, but beautiful all the same. He leaned against the rock face, a sly grin on his face as he tore his eyes away from the sweeping vista and to the figure moving much more swiftly than he would have thought the man would move over the snow.

He narrowed his eyes.

That was not the mage.

* * *

 _Damn Varric,_ she thought taking leaps across the snow that sent her distilled brain into an unforgiving whorl. _Damn Varric and his damn drinking games._ She took a sip from her flask to settle her stomach, try and ease the needles of hangover that were drilling into her skull. She spat the water out and grimaced. _Wrong flask._ She unhooked the wine skin from her belt and drank deep of the sour red that had been such a fond friend last night.

It warmed her like nothing else would in this wretched place. She wiped her lips clean, feeling a little more like herself and staggered onwards.

The snow made her think of her sister and that made her want to drink. When she thought of her sister, her sweet smiling face was indelibly linked with thoughts of the others she had left behind. And that made her want to drink. And when she thought of the others she had left she thought of those that were no longer among them. She saw the faces of the dead. And that definitely made her want to drink.

So when she heard the whistle from high above she didn't stop to think, didn't stop to wonder whether it was friend or foe, she simply drew her throwing knife from her belt and in one, serene movement flung it to where the sound had come from. Her head followed the reach of her arm a second later to see the hilt buried in the surface of the rock and the wide eyes of the elf watching it still thrumming, an inch from his golden head.

"You are still very good at that, I see," he purred, a dangerous grin cocking up his lips. "I suppose I should be more careful approaching the Champion of Kirkwall."

"Do I know you?" she sighed, squinting upwards.

"Very thoroughly, my dear," he drawled. "But it seems you don't recall."

"Should I?" she sighed. "You know my name so give me yours."

The elf breathed a short sigh but not in ill humour. It made a memory flutter, just out of reach. Her brow furrowed trying to grasp it. "Are you a friend of Isabelas?" The pirate had often brought pretty elves to their bed and it would hardly be the first time she'd forgotten a face of a one-night lover.

"Getting warmer," the elf teased, hoisting a pack onto his back in a fluid gesture. "I certainly remember you...and your wicked tongue."

Another memory surfaced at that, one that would have a lay sister blushing. "You're that Crow! Damn..what's the name...something...Antivany."

The elf clinked as he stepped onto the foothold protruding just below the plateau. He grinned into the rising sun, his long hair painted white hot as he inclined his head. "I am Zevran Arainai. I shall be most cross if you forget again."

"Of course!" she sighed, the tendrils of her hangover becoming mere whispers as the alcohol set about its happy work. "And what is an Antivan Crow doing..." she gestured to the mountain side, "fluttering so very far from home."

"Ah," he stopped, poised on the tip of the outcrop as though about to dive down. "Carrion crows are not known for migrating...this is true..."

"Very witty..."

"But I am a rare breed," he touched his fingers lightly to his breastplate. "I am in the employ of the King, now. Having fled the nest that nurtured me."

"And who does the King want killed?" She asked immediately.

"Curiosity killed the Catrin, you know," he grinned.

She rolled her eyes and tutted her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You think I've not heard that one before?"

"Some of the best are the simplest," he sighed. "So, why is the great Champion of Kirkwall not awakening in the tavern where she spends most of her nights, drinking away her fortune."

Catrin Hawke scowled. "Spying among friends is impolite."

"Oh ho!" He held up a hand. "But a moment ago you did not even remember my name. Is it friends already?"

"So you've been spying in Skyhold?" Catrin mused aloud. "At the word of the King..." She cocked her head, feeling the weight of the contact poison nestled in her tight bun. "Interesting..."  

He gave a nonchalant shrug, trailing a foot over the ledge as though he intended to jump. He stopped suddenly, eyes squinting into the distance towards Skyhold. "Ah, and here he is."

Catrin tensed. Her palms still shaking from withdrawal, found their homes clasped around her daggers.

"Oh, I wouldn't if I were you," Zevran drawled dropping down to stand within arm's length from the ground. "My handsome friend will not take kindly to your threats."

She threw a glare at him but turned to watch the road again. From here she could not see the so-called handsome stranger. But that meant whoever they were, they couldn't see her.


	46. I Know My Call

**Part III: The Mage, The Warden**

_"So tie me to a post and block my ears,_ **  
**

_I can see widows and orphans through my tears,_

_I know my call, despite my faults_

_And despite my growing fears."_

_(Mumford and Sons, The Cave)_

* * *

The spymaster's seal had opened the gates as quickly as a whip drove slaves. Though she'd assured him these guards were loyal to her, and by the way they shot to obey he didn't doubt it, one could never be too sure that the eyes of other agents did not watch. Had the Herald seen the cloaked and hooded figure, a stave across his back, fleeing from the fortress, he could not have said what type of punishment he'd have to endure.

As he passed under the threatening spikes of the open portcullis he suppressed the thoughts that came to him like birds bearing bad news.

_This was a terrible idea._

He gripped the slip of paper carefully folded in his pocket. A slim defence against what he expected to be an onslaught. Permission. He almost laughed at the word but to disobey the Herald was no matter to giggle over. What he was doing was stupid.

_And yet...here I am...sneaking out over the snow. Maker's big hairy balls, is this what friendship entails?_

He'd seen it in her face when she'd left that she was lying, squirreling something away that was gnawing at her. He'd tried to coax it out, draw the poison from her, but she was stubborn as a mule. And now he knew he wish he didn't. Such was often the way with secrets.

"Halt!"

In one spiralling movement his staff was in his hands and thrumming with power. A woman stood behind him, the hilt of a gilded dagger protruding from her cloak. She didn't move to draw it but Dorian wasn't fooled, she looked lean and limber enough to have it at his throat in an instant.

A whistle tried to draw his eyes upwards but he was not to be tricked like some child, he kept his gaze trained on the threat.

"What did I tell you, my dear?" an all too familiar voice drawled. "Put your weapons away, the pair of you...or I shall have to think of some terrible punishment."

Zevran Aranai leapt deftly from the ledge he'd been balanced on to land like a cat. Dorian groaned dismissing the spell at the end of his staff. "Good morning, most handsome of mages," the assassin wore a smug grin. "Catrina Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall...may I introduce..."

Dorian shook his head sharply. "No names..."

"Dorian of House Pavus..." the elf finished in an irritatingly superior manner. "And now, we should hurry before the light flees."

"You're leaving...?" the woman, Hawke, scowled at the elf. "Where are you going?"

Dorian coughed. "That is on a need to know..."

"We are looking for someone," Zevran cut across him, his amber eyes sidling up and down the Champion of Kirkwall's armour encased voluptuousness.  Dorian resisted the urge to gag. "Perhaps you would care to walk with us?"

Hawke crossed her arms. "I know who you're bloody looking for!" she hissed, anger coming quick to her satyr like features. "It's the Hero isn't it?"

"It most certainly is not..."

"Yes."

Dorian glared at the impossible man but his attention was all for the Champion. Dorian didn't know why this made him feel such hostility. What did he care if the Champion ratted them out? The Herald was bound to find out he was gone...if he hadn't already. The thought made his stomach churn with impatience as the two rogues stared at each other.  "Shall we...make a move then?"

"I'm coming with you," she announced. "We hunt the same quarry."

* * *

Neria lay awake on the thin mat that did nothing to stop the stones biting into her spine. Daylight crept through the canvas and though she was losing light she had to rest. Sleep, however, would not come, though her tired limbs ached for respite and her mind was worn to shreds, unravelling each thread of worry like it would somehow help her now.

Her mind tended towards dark thoughts and they were as numerous as clouds gathering to storm. She closed her eyes. Took deep, shuddering breaths. Nothing seemed to quiet that anxious voice and so eventually she left the discomfort of her bed for the agony of her journey.

Camp didn't take long to pack up. Not with just her. As ever it made her think on fonder times but even they were tinged by the blackness of her mood. She scattered the embers of her fire with a sigh, heaved her pack onto her back and set about her lonely quest.

_To the western wastes. Where dragons go to die._

 


	47. Fight and Flight

**Part III: The Birds, The Mage and The Warden**

* * *

 

"Someone made camp here," Hawke squatted next to the reeds crushed by the weight of a tent and unconsciously took a swig from her wine skin that she hadn't even noticed she was holding. Her eyes trailed up the footsteps left among the grass and she hooked the flask back on her belt and followed them, careful not to smudge the tracks with her feet.  

"Perhaps we should do the same, no?" The Antivan drawled. "It is getting dark."

"Then light a torch," she grumbled. "We're not stopping until we've found her."

"Such tenacity," he sighed. "But I cannot help but wonder at your motive."

Hawke would not rise to such bait. She owed the Knight Captain his secrecy and her word was not flimsy thing, despite what others might think. She crouched towards the remains of the fire, hovering her hand over the charcoal. "If this was her then we are more than half a day behind."

"You did not answer my question..." Zevran sighed and Hawke felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"You didn't ask a question," she grunted, standing to stir the ash with her boot and resisting the urge to silently unsheathe a knife. "Now, she went west, are you coming?"

"Best wait for my man to catch up, yes?" he said. "Wouldn't want him getting lost."

* * *

 

He hated the cold drizzle. He hated the mulchy, leaf thick ground. He hated the steel grey of the sky and the chill of the wind as it blew up his sodden robe. But most of all, he hated the fact that he was lost.

The two rouges had skipped on ahead and he had let them. They clearly knew each other well enough that he was a third wheel, a gooseberry, bitter and useless. He cursed his pride, he cursed the sky, and he cursed that when he cursed his breath steamed in front of him. Warmed only by his anger he trudged onwards.

And then he stopped. His ears having twitched at a sound he was not certain he'd even heard. The sparse woodland was getting dark. The creatures of  the night were descending to hunt or be hunted. He unhooked his staff in a swift, well trained movement, turning in a circle to check his back.

Nothing. Just the looming oaks and their shattered branches. Just the wind playing tricks on his tired mind. He sighed, relaxed the staff until the butt nestled into the wet leaves. _Just some errant fox or owl,_ he calmed himself with the thought. _Just some mouse running for its life._

He swerved just in time for the steel to slice above his head.

* * *

 

"Did you hear that?" she muttered.

Zevran knew when he was being toyed with, he'd spent long enough teasing and being teased to recognise the signs. He ignored her. Well, he ignored her words. He didn't ignore the way her frosty eyes narrow towards danger, or the way the delicate bones of her collar pressed against her skin or the wiggle of her hips as she straightened and cocked her head.

When the scream split over the clearing he realised, not for the first time, that he was wrong. She wasn't toying with him. He was on his feet, weapons drawn, before she'd even unhooked her bow.

He darted downwards, not caring for his leather boots slipping in the mud, or the frozen air whipping about his ears. He skidded to the bottom of the hillock before Hawke had even begun her slow descent. He snatched a glance to see her vaguely in the dark, bent double under her bow.

All was still. Silent. He drew his blades, twirled the hilts of the daggers in his palm, the sound cutting across his senses. Patience was all part of the job. He would not stumble blindly into a fight. He waited. Listening.

A grunt. A moan. A whisper. And Zevran Arainai narrowed his vision to an innocent looking thatch of trees. And he sped towards it.

Branches tried to snag him but he ducked and whirled with all the grace of a courtly dancer. His fast footfalls didn't make a sound. He barely even needed to breathe.

_This is what it is to be alive._

Suddenly the twilit wood burned bright as though with lightning. Screams, high and unnatural, set even his teeth on edge. He willed his legs faster, not wanting to miss the fight.

The battleground was illuminated by mage fire for a split second. Dorian lay on his back as though pinned there by some invisible hand, his stave at an awkward angle, still firing at the oncoming enemy. The glow of a paralysis spell shimmered around a creature whose blade was raised as though to cleave the mage's skull. Zevran smiled, and went to work.

* * *

Hawke's hands knew the dance well enough for her mind to disengage. Fingers fluttered over feathers, fingers eased the bow back, fingers fired. And Templars died.

It was just like Kirkwall. But with trees. And poorer company.

Her mind was already reeling with drink, but as she shifted to get a better sight of the creature climbing towards her she itched to unhook her flask, not concentrating on her feet at all. A root, a hand, a branch, something at least, clasped around her boot.

The ground came up to meet her. And Hawke flew.

Her head bashed against something. She swore as her bow was torn from her hand. Arrows snapped along her spine. A whiteness blinded her. Sky, ground, sky again. Her stomach churned with her movement and it struck her, stupidly, that she'd only eaten three bites of cheese that day. And wine. Lots of wine.

It numbed the cuts and grazes. It muffled the ringing in her skull. It made it easier to stumble to her feet.

She didn't bother casting her eyes about for her bow. It was long gone. She drew her daggers and gritted her teeth and pounced on the nearest enemy.

* * *

Neria watched the red dawn rise over the hinterlands. The garish light leaked between the clouds, like blood soaked wisps of cotton.  The land beneath her feet seemed a battlefield, the light pooling against the rise and fall of the slopping hills. She swallowed, shrugged her pack up her shoulders and turned her back on the sunrise, leaving nothing but a smoking fire in her wake.


	48. Friends and Favours

**Part III: The Mage, The Hawke, The Lion**

Dorian's eyes flung open. Canvas shifted above his head, shadows danced all around, amber orbs watched him from the darkness. There was pain. Pain everywhere. The groan forced its way out of his lips.

Those amber eyes hovered over him, regarding his pain with the compassionate coldness of one long used to feeling and seeing it. "You'll want water," the Antivan muttered. "Here."

He drank. Grateful but silent. Words, he knew, would hurt too much. The Antivan's hands were firm among his hair, helping him take sips of the stale tasting water. A distant part of Dorian wanted to laugh at the irony of the assassin as a nursemaid, but the agony clamped his jaw shut, and those strong, tanned hands lowered him back to the pillow. And he was soon asleep.

* * *

Hawke refused to wait. An arrow through the leg was enough to fell a man for a week. The mage wouldn't die. She'd slipped off without the assassin even noticing, so busy was he flustering over the other man, playing the doctor like his knowledge wasn't all from the opposite profession.

She was unscathed from their battle with the Templars. She's stumbled around in the dark for her bow but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. She'd found a sturdy enough crossbow on the body of one of the dead Templars and enough bolts to keep her shooting until the next fight. She reminded herself to charge the Knight Captain for that. If she made it back to Skyhold in one piece.

* * *

"I want every inch of the fortress searched," the Herald paced the seven strides of the war table in a furious flash. "Find them!"

The Inquisition scout took a cautious step backwards and almost tumbled into Cullen. He winced away, muttering apologies as he darted from the room. "Who's missing?"

"Dorian and Hawke," Cassandra scowled from one end of the map. "We think they have fled Skyhold."

"That damnable woman," the Herald hissing, stopping only to slam his fist on the table. "We were supposed to leave for the Approach in three days. I knew she couldn't be trusted!"

"Perhaps," Cullen shifted, feeling all eyes turning to him. "Perhaps she intends to be back before then."

"And Dorian...where is he?" the Herald demanded. "The man is a liability, a Tevinter mage on the loose, Maker knows what foul arts he practises!" The door creaked open and he stopped his tirade to glare at it, angry at the interruption.

Leliana stepped through neat and smiling. Cullen felt that this was a bad sign indeed. "What news do you have Spymaster?" The Herald spat her title like an insult.

"You could have simply asked me," she spread her hands out to indicate her knowledge. "These search parties are pointless."

"Speak plainly!" The Herald scowled.

"Maxwell, calm yourself," the Seeker chided. "This is not a time to give into rage."

Cullen blinked. The thin arch of Leliana's brows arched even higher. They glanced at each other, shocked, as the shoulders of the Herald of Andraste seemed to slump. "You are right of course, Seeker. Please..." he waved his gauntleted hand at Leliana. "Continue."

Leliana seemed lost for words. Her mouth opened and snapped shut again as she looked between the two warriors. "I...er..." she shook herself, as though dusting a thought from her head. "Dorian was asked by the King of Ferelden to perform a task and he left, with my permission."

"I see," the Herald of Andraste looked about to burst with rage but his pursed mouth kept shut. "I suppose you shall not tell where this dangerous mage has gone."

"The King of Ferelden..."

"Has no jurisdiction over my men," the Herald grunted. "Dorian is a member of the Inquisition..."

"Dorian is a human being," Leliana muttered under her breath. "Free to choose his own path."

"A path that you laid out for him," the Herald's hand stretched out to point accusingly at the Spymaster. "Any wrongdoings he commits are upon your head. And as for you, spymaster..." the Herald paused, his finger jabbing the air between them again. "Who are you loyal to, hmm? Doing the King's dirty work!"

"Alistair is my friend..."

"And if he wants favours then he can ask!" the Herald turned away from them both. "We have enough enemies at our gates without our friends keeping secrets!"

Cullen's stomach squirmed like a thousand flies had just been released in his bowels. His throat clenched around guilty words, desperate to creep out. Best to keep his silence close to his chest and pray that Hawke would soon return. And Neria not long behind.

* * *

 


	49. There's A Man on the Horizon

**Part III: The Warden**

_There's a man on the horizon when I go to bed,_

_If I fall to his feet tonight, will he let me rest my head?_

(Antony and the Johnsons, Hope There's Someone)

* * *

 

She smelt it before she saw it, as was always the way. Costal winds blew the city stench inland, towards where she slouched up hill. She hadn't needed to take this road. She could have gone straight to Amaranthine. She crested the hill, nose wrinkled at the familiar and yet repugnant reek of ten thousand people, fifteen hundred horses and over a hundred mabari hounds, all gathered and cramped together within the walls of the greatest city in Ferelden.

Until she saw it she hadn't known why she'd come. Until it's chimneys were smoking before her eyes, until she'd breathed that odour, until she'd trod that achingly familiar road. Now it was here, she knew exactly why she'd come.

She was testing herself.

She could stride through those gates. She could sneak through the passage ways, unknown to all but the closest companions of royalty. She could climb the walls at night, if she had to, she'd done it before.

And then she would be home. Back to comforts of her townhouse. Back to the dance of the court. Back to rivalries and intrigue and sleeping with guards at the door and the window. Back to power. Back to help.

She could feel him. A distant throb in her mind. His song. He doubted he could sense her, over the bustle of the city. The sun was high in the sky and he'd be holding court, lounging in his throne, a sarcastic smile on his lips.

His wife at his side.

Where once that thought would have provoked a keen anger; a jealousy that clamped down on her breast like a iron hand; now, as Princess Jeaneve's proud, pinched features sneered before her eyes she felt...

Any chance at a good reign for the Orelesian born Consort had been destroyed. Neria doubted even her long exile would warm the nobility to Jeaneve's cause. Her insistence on speaking the Empire's tongue, her hot temper, her foreign dress, none of these had endeared her to a peoples used to the stoic, cold calculations of the Queens who'd come before.

Neria's own hand had hardly helped.

For a second she entertained the thought of bursting through the doors of the Great Hall, leaving muddied footprints on the imported Orelesian rugs, head held high, meeting haughty blue eyes with a solid cold stare. She imagined the look of shock on her old lovers face, she imagined the whispers of the assembled Bannorn, she imagined her voice, loud and passionate, proclaiming that she had found the King's true mother...

The tolling of a distant bell ripped her from her reverie. Storm clouds were moving swiftly over sea, grey and thunderous, promising a brisk shower of sleet. She should find shelter for the night.

As she put her back to Denerim her thoughts were with her task. Her mind echoing with the words she'd found in the fade.

_Come to where the dragons die and the Empress shall be yours._

The hand has needed no sign off. She knew it as well as she knew her own.


	50. My Little Terrier

**Part III: Lonely Bird**

* * *

 

The rain plinked off the steel of her pouldrons, made the ground under her tread as slippery as ice and obscured the view of the city as though it were fog. The steady dripping of her cropped hair and the rivers beading like sweat between her shoulder blades had become familiar companions. Her head pounded with its incessant rhythm, her feet were soaked as though she'd crossed a river and worst of all... Hawke was out of wine.

A choice then. To enter the city of Denerim. To go to a soft bed and a warm mug of spiced wine. To a bath, to a hot meal, to a sleepless night tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed, to a wineskin filled for the morning. Or to trudge onwards, after her quarry, through the storm that looked in no way to be abating.

She sighed. Her breath steamed before her.

The sky was a grey smudge. The rain poured down her face like tears. The scent of the storm, the weariness in her bones, the dull ache in the back of her mind, all of these things tugged at her tenacity. Isabela had called her 'my little terrier' for her inability to stop once she'd started a job. Thoughts of the pirate queen made her legs unsteady and her throat raw so she boxed them away, buried them somewhere deep inside.

She gritted her teeth and on uncertain feet followed the trail that the Hero of Ferelden had not cared to obscure. 


	51. The Joker and The Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a little comic relief...Please forgive me!

**Part III: The Crow**

_"There must be some kinda way outta here,_

_Said the joker to the thief."_

(Jimi Hendrix, All Along the Watchtower)

* * *

 

The crow was no normal bird. As it swooped between the dew dripped branches its midnight wings spread half  a foot larger than its brethren squawking above. It darted around the currents of smoke and steam,  and cawed once as it settled among the tree tops. Quick, beady eyes belied it's intelligence as it took in the scene beneath. He waited as the bird observed him, the drip, drip, drip of last night's storm the only sound.

He glanced back to where the damp wood spat and crackled, keeping the bird on the edge of his eye line...wondering.

Surprise was an emotion that Zevran Aranai had left in the sweaty streets of his youth. It was not a useful emotion in his profession, fledgling Crows that often found themselves shocked often found themselves dead. He'd felt the earth shake with the giant forepaws of Dragons, he'd  been betrayed by men and women he'd sworn were loyal, he'd felt cold steel at his throat during the most intimate of acts and, for almost a decade, he had not batted an eyelid.

But when the crow hoped to the ground, waddling it's great black body towards the fire with a confidence that no bird had ever shown in his presence, Zevran Arainai felt his eyebrows leap upwards.

And when it opened its sharp beak, those animal eyes still watching him over the guttering flame, he felt his breath suck inwards as it did not caw, caw, as it had above his head but made an entirely different sound.

"Zev, Zev."

He blinked. The bird cocked its head to one side as though in askance. He wiped his eyes, dry with exhaustion.

"Zev, Zev."

It seemed most likely that he was hallucinating. That long hours at the injured mage's side had addled his tired mind. He closed his eyes, lithe smoke scented fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. He took three deep breaths of the morning air. The sound of wings fluttering. When he peaked out from under his heavy eyelids the bird was still staring but was thankfully silent. It proffered its orange leg to him. Wrapped around it was a piece of parchment. Zevran gingerly reached for the missive and the bird hopped backwards from where the assassin squatted among the trees.

"Corn, corn," it demanded.

Zevran narrowed his eyes. The blighted beast wanted payment for its message. Clearly it had come from Leliana. Only she would teach a bird such tricks.

He stood and ducked into the tent.

Why he had stayed with the handsome mage he couldn't say. It was certainly not compassion that kept him close. Zevran had long ago discarded such useless emotions. Perhaps it was pity. He had suffered such a wound himself, though it seemed an age since Neria had kept a vigil at his fevered bedside, tending to his wound with a delicate care that he struggled to emulate. 

The mage's face was taut in sleep. His skin had soured to the colour of yak's milk, tendrils of his dark curls sweat-stuck across his brow. The wound stank, a cloying, constricting stench underpinned by the nostril-tingling concoction of elfroot and willow bark.

Dark eyes flickered open and Zevran turned to his pack to avoid their gaze.

"You're...watching me?"

He rummaged among his things; neatly packed poisons and silk wrapped knives, opening a pouch at the very bottom of the canvas pack. "It is still a remarkable view," he grinned over his shoulder. "Despite the smell."

Finally he pulled the prize from his bag; a loaf of leaf-wrapped bread, squashed out of shape and no doubt mould infested.

"Why...?" the mage muttered and Zevran heard the rustle of fur against skin as he tried to sit. "You don't know me...why would you...?"

Zevran tossed the palm sized wrap in the air and caught it deftly, frowning at the mage in a mimic of thought."From all Leliana tells me you have shown kindness to my warden when most were inclined to cruelty," he shrugged. "I act only as she would act."

"You're..." the mage broke off, pain contorting his features.

"Charming?" Zevran said, suggestively. "Incredibly good looking? A sex god by even a blind man's measurement?"

"Strange," he gasped out, grimacing. Strong hands flew to his wound.

"Oh," Zevran let a smile slither up his cheeks. "You are not the first to say such a thing."

The mage merely grunted in response, eyes closed, leaning back into his bed of pain. The crow cawed from outside again, and with a fleeting salute Zevran left the mage to the privacy of his wounds.

"Corn, corn!" The bird demanded, hopping on one foot and then the other, beady eyes expectant in the honey light of dawn. 

"You're a persistent little bugger, aren't you?" Zevran muttered, sitting slowly by the useless fire. The crow cocked it's head in response, as though trying to understand. "Here," he crumbled some of the bread among the damp leaves. "This is the best I can do."

The crows beak pecked at the ground, its tiny throat working down a swallow. It ruffled its midnight blue feathers indignantly; "Corn, corn."

Zevran rolled his eyes.

"Who in the void are you speaking to?"  the mage's muffled voice asked. "Is that bloody woman back?"

"I am speaking to a bird, my friend, have no fear," Zevran chuckled to himself. " Just a very stubborn bird."

"Corn, corn!"

"You know I am assassin, yes?" he glowered down at the creature. "A Crow, in fact."

"Zev, Zev," it garbled, looking as unimpressed as it reptilian features could manage.

"I could break your neck," he threatened. The bird blinked up at him.

"Liar," the bird squawked. "Liar, liar."

Zevran sighed. "Fine, I shall get you the corn you so desire. But first..." he held out his hand in askance for the letter.

The bird pecked his thumb. Zevran glared at the blood welling from the wound. It was going to be a long day.


	52. Back to the Grind

**Part III: The Warden, The Champion**

_Planted these seeds, and hope that they will grow_   
_But hope won't help, when hope is all alone_   
_(De Staat, Back to the Grind)_

* * *

 

Dew drops glittered like gemstones in the afternoon light. Long streaks of water reflected the dancing shadows of leaves above, painting the sludgey road in greens and blues. The air was fresh, birds were heralding the spring and Neria Surana dragged her feet along at the pace of a funeral procession. Each sucking step was agony. Burning its way up her mud-spattered calves, grinding her knees and hips until she felt every single one of her twenty seven years.

She was so close now.

The road between Denerim and Amaranthine was familiar as the lines of her palm. The winding coastal paths, the mud-thick main thoroughfares, the roads lined with dense woodland, she had trod them all a hundred times and her feet carried her along without much thought to direction.

She was so close now. Just a few more miles. Just another step, and then another.

Her world narrowed to her feet. To the rub of her boots against her heels, to the agony of blisters between her toes, to the click of her ankle as her foot splattered to the floor. Occasionally she would lift her weary eyes to the road ahead and make false bargains with her body; _reach the milestone, just the milestone, and then we shall rest, just get beyond the line of trees and we'll halt for lunch, five more steps and an hour break._ She never made good on her promises. She was so close now, after all.

She'd reach Amaranthine by nightfall. By twilight. By sunset. Soon.

Her eyes snapped open, unaware that they'd been closed. She stopped. Pressed the heel of her hand against the thrumming in her skull. She blinked the harsh light out of her eyes. And then she realised what had jerked her from her walking sleep.

A noise. A distant rumbling like thunder, a whispering like the wind through the trees. Her tired mind could make no sense of and she stood, stock still and bewildered. She scowled over her shoulder, starting to the think the rising sound part of the ever present song. Nothing but trees and mud and sunlight lay behind. She span back round. Her mouth forming into an 'o' of realisation before her mind had a chance to catch up.

A carriage veered round the corner. Several tonnes of horseflesh and heraldry careened towards her at the pace of a speeding arrow. She blinked, wondering why she wasn't moving. Sunlight shone off snapping leather reins. The grey beasts snorted and sweated as their hooves ploughed a wake of mud. Roots sprung up around her legs. Banners crackled in the wind. Her useless mind recognised the seven white doves ringed with fire on a field of lavender as the herald of the Princess Consort, just as her body began to scream at her to move.

Instinct flung herself out of the way. And not a second too late.

* * *

" _We're blinded, so we're hiding,_ something something _to be."_

Hawke's voice warbled as she swayed up the mud strewn road. It had been a stroke of luck, finding that unattended cask of brandy hidden among the hay of an unassuming barn. She smiled as the spirit burned her throat, trying to remember the rest of the words to that damned song.

" _We're hiding from the_ something _, longing to see."_

Her heart was lighter than it had been in a long time. Brandy was scarce in the mountains and it had been months  since she'd managed to indulge that particular craving. _Proper Antivan as well,_ her grin smudged across her face, ' _tis indeed my lucky day._ She toasted the air, the sweet smelling spring all but drowned in the vapours of the alcohol, and took several long glugs of the potent liquid.

"Blimey," she muttered, smacking her lips together. It was truly stirring stuff. Strong enough to put hairs on an elf's chest. She sniggered at the thought and then grimaced as the brandy burnt up her nostrils.

She spent the next five minutes choking and coughing, hands fumbling for something to grip. The world span. Her feet slipped. Her arse slapped against the mud.

Someone was laughing. It took a second to realise it was her. And that just made the giggles even worse.

 _Maker, I'm drunk as a dwarf!_ Clumsy hands hooked her wineskin back onto her belt. The boots of her heels had made long indents in the dirt. She didn't know for how long she sat there, swaying slightly with the breeze and booze.

When her eyes came back to some semblance of focus she realised she was staring at a hedgerow that looked to have been ripped apart. She blinked, hefted herself to her feet, tracking instincts overtaking brandy soaked giggles.

Someone or something had tumbled down through the bracken, torn its way down the verge and stopped just shy of the brook that carved its way beside the road. She squinted between the trees, catching a glimpse of something red among the green and brown.

"Well, well, well," she sighed, clutching a tree trunk for support. "What have we got here?"


	53. Dark Way

**Part III: The Mages**

_" It is dark here and there are ghosts roving_

_Up and down among the trees and by the roadway._

_Come closer, my darling, and let me guard you_

_From the evil that is round us and threatening."_

_-Valentin Iremonger, Dark Way._

* * *

 

She remembered very little other than the blackness.  Blackness that was the distant past, blackness that was the almost present, blackness wedged between the blurs of green and blue that was the here and now. Something was tinkling like tiny bells beside her. Something was whistling high above. Something was beating down on her and her mangled mind called it the sun.

A shadow fell across her. She might not remember anything,  but habit curled her hand into a fist.

"Well, if it ain't my lucky day!"

There was something not right about that voice. Slurred and stumbling, she couldn't place it. She opened her eyes just a crack.

A shadow leered down at her, haloed by wisps of white gold. She frowned. It leaned a little closer and she wrinkled her nose at the stench and her mind recoiled at the memories it evoked. "You're the Hero, right?"

It came crashing down around her ears that she was just that. Hero. _Some hero,_ she thought, not for the first time. She tried to nod but found a sluggish tiredness swimming around her mind. She tried to open her mouth but the taste of blood constricted around her throat.

The shadow knelt over her, she could feel the warmth of the other body pressing down upon her. She shuddered as a mouth was pressed to her ear. "I was sent to look for you."

Neria Surana came to full consciousness and every single one of her senses told her she had to fight. Her already coiled fist flew through the air, trailed by lightning. A soft thunk as it connected with boiled leather. A hiss from the shadow straddling her. The pressure on her torso suddenly released. Her legs scrambled to right herself, sliding in the mud. Her palms patting herself for a blade, but before she could grip the hilt at her thigh there was cold, cold, steel at her throat.

"Careful," the shadow hissed. Neria was aware enough to realise the voice was female, despite its gruffness.  "I'm not going to stand for you messing around. If I have to I'll hogtie you and drag you back to Skyhold."

Blue eyes, as cold as the steel at her throat, flickered over her face. "Now, Hero, are you going to play nicely."

Neria considered her dwindling options. "Yes," she forced through gritted teeth.  

* * *

This was not how he'd expected to return to the damnable cold climes of Skyhold. Useless as a babe in arms, cowering under rugs and furs, he feigned sleep as the scouts carried him under the great, stone walls.

The Inquisition had found them two days after he'd taken the arrow to the knee. He'd not wanted to return...not one bit...but the assassin had exhausted his healing knowledge and his talk about hacksaws and tourniquets had forced Dorian to concur that returning to the fortress was the best option.

Though he squeezed his eyes tight shut, the rest of his senses were alive enough to know the reception they garnered was as frosty as the snow upon the ground. His leg thrummed with the pain of his wound. His mind recoiled with disgust at the knowledge that the whole of the Inquisition were present to witness his weakness.

Silence reigned. The kind of silence that only a large group of people could make. He shuddered further under the trappings of his illness, wishing fervently that the assassin had taken them somewhere, anywhere, but here.

"Where have you been?"

The Herald of Andraste's disapproval seeped into every syllable. A white hot anger clawed at Dorian's belly just imagining that towering frown. He pictured himself sitting up and taking that gruff throat between both his hands and squeezing until the man could disapprove no more. He gritted his teeth.

"Inquisitor," the elf's voice slid over the title with reverence, armour creaking as he stepped into a bow. "This mage is severely wounded, perhaps we may answer your questions in the warmth of the infirmary?"

A growl. Heavy footsteps crunching over the snow as the man approached. "And who in the Maker's name are you?"

The assassin did not easily succumb to anger. Patient, sweet as honey, his voice sang out like a choir-boy's. "Forgive me my rudeness, Inquisitor," and the creak of his armour as he bowed again. "I am Zevran Arainai, friend and...personal assistant to his Majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden."

The assembled crowd began their whisperings. Dorian imagined the elf's face a picture of calm, the exact opposite of the raging disquiet on his own covered features.

"Perhaps you can explain to me, elf, what exactly the King means by this insult?" The Herald's anger reverberated around the high walls. "By sneaking a man into my ranks? By stealing away a member of my Inquisition?"

Dorian ached to peak out between the blankets but knew this would make him a target for the bastard's ire and in his current state he could hardly defend himself. He bit down on his tongue and stayed as still as he could manage.

"But of course!" The elf was grinning, Dorian could hear it in his voice. "Though perhaps we may do so over a brandy and a hot meal. I am utterly famished, yes?"

Dorian winced, his hands shifting to clutch at his head. The elf's flippancy would earn him no friends among the stern, mage-hating, members of the Inquistion. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rebuke.


	54. The Tragic Flaw of Charming Men

**Part III: The Hawke, The Crow, The Warden**

_"The tragic flaw of  charming men_

_Is exactly as it seems,_

_Too much grease, can break down a machine."_

_-Astronautalis, The Wondersmith and his Sons_

* * *

 

Hawke had heard the stories. Who, Ferelden-born, had not? The powerful mage who had led a resistance against the Blight and defeated the archdemon in less time than it would take for most of her magical brethren to organise their way out of a wet paper bag. She had expected...well...she wasn't really sure what she'd expected...but it had certainly been someone grander, a foot taller, a ravishing beauty with eyes of topaz and hair the colour of flame. The woman who glowered across from her, dirt-smeared and hollow-cheeked, tied up amidst in the damp bracken, was certainly a surprise.

She was lithe and starving thin, perhaps a whole head shorter than Hawke, a woman hardly known for her height. A scar slithered its way down a pale cheek, a dark red freshness to it. Her eyes did not glimmer like topaz but were the dull green of stricken pond plants, silted with rage and framed by the purple bruise of sleeplessness.

Her voice, however, was exactly what Hawke expected. Deep and dark and full of the lustre of command. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

Hawke felt no need to respond. She had the upper-hand here, whatever the little Warden thought. She uncorked the wineskin with her teeth and reclined against the stump of a tree as she guzzled down her afternoon's ration of brandy.

"Did the Herald pay you to take me?" the elven mage continued, unphazed by the lack of response. "You said something about Skyhold?"

Hawke shrugged, smacking her lips together, relaxed, but keeping her eyes trained on the Hero. No doubt the woman could still run if she had to. "Want some ointment for that?" she gestured to the scar with the neck of her skin. "Wouldn't want it getting infected."

The elf sighed, shoulders slumping. "I'd prefer a tug on that..." those green eyes glimmered a little as they followed the liquor. "Smells Antivan..."

"Good nose," Hawke grinned. "But I'm not stupid enough to fall for the old untie-me-and-we-can-be-drinking-buddies trick..."

"Just my luck," the Hero sighed. "So what's the plan...drag me back to Skyhold? I had the Herald's permission to leave, you know." She held her chin up slightly, jaw clenched. "I'm running an errand for him."

"Truthfully?" Hawke cocked an eyebrow, bringing her legs up to her chest to lean even closer. "I tracked you from Skyhold..." she whispered.

"And?" the Hero betrayed nothing this time... _She's used to keeping secrets._

"Well...forgive me if I'm mistaken," Hawke purred. "But you took a mighty detour if Amarathine is your destination...one might call it...suspicious."

It was the Hero's turn to slump backwards, as thought to distance herself  from Hawke's questions, her face was as smooth as a mirror's surface. "An answer for an answer."

"If I thought you wouldn't lie, I might take you up on that..." Hawke sighed. "But I hear you're fond of secrets..."

She straightened her legs, planting her boots firmly among the grass and before heaving herself to her feet. "So...decision time...I could take you back to Skyhold and earn my pay...or...?"

"Or what?" the Hero asked, a small smile playing about her lips.

"Or you could double what my employer is offering," Hawke put her hands on her hips, cheeks tugging upwards. "And we can be drinking buddies after all..."

* * *

Zevran formed his face into one of meekness. Those like the Herald of Andraste were better charmed than cheeked. Such men populated the higher ranks of the Crows, men puffed up with resentment, propped up with power. They were marks that required patience.

"I humbly beseech you, my friend," he said, making sure his voice carried across the assembled crowd. "This man was injured in the line of duty...you would not turn one such as he away?"

"A mage and a turncoat," the Herald grunted, looming over Zevran like some great beaked dragon, close enough that the elf could see the flare of his nostrils, close enough that he could smell the man's steel.   

He blithely wondered if the Herald knew he could kill him with a well placed flick of his wrist. "There's been some misunderstanding, I do not doubt it," Zevran said, the image of the cobblestones drinking the brute's blood fuelled his grin

His eyes did not leave the Herald's. The Herald did not blink.

_I do so love a challenge._

A feminine throat cleared itself from behind the great bulk of a man. "Inquisitor...I advise you to let this man in...he is..." a silken form shuffled between them. "Who he professes to be."

"My Lady Montilyet," Zevran shuffled backwards to dip into a bow, flattening a hand to his heart in an Antivan gesture of reverence. _An easier target at least._ "You are as lovely as the stories, my dear."

"You know this man?" The Herald spat, his glare now for his Ambassador.

"I make it a habit to know all the royal staff," Lady Motilyet could not hide the flush in her cheeks. "Especially those who rise from street orphan to right hand of the King."

A shadow flickered on the other side of the Inquisitor. "You're here...good."

The man glowered at his Spymaster. "You knew this...elf was coming?"

"He is here under my command," Leliana muttered. Zevran suppressed his pride and nodded.

"I can be most useful, Herald..." he whispered. "If only you'd let me..."

* * *

She could have run. She could of shaken off this drunkard with the ease of a whispered word. Even without her magic she could have escaped, ran off into slowly dimming light. But every time the other woman's eyes lulled with booze or became distracted by slight sounds around the clearing where they'd made camp, Neria found something kept her still.

What that something was she couldn't say...she needed no other hand stirring the complex waters of her life. She'd been a lone wolf long enough to slip away from danger; to evade the aggressive bands of templars that would hang her to the nearest tree, to avoid the demons spilling from the sky and the pack of monsters that roamed the hills to the north of the city. She had spoken true to Leliana. One may go where two may not...and yet...

She snuck a glance at the woman from under her hood and found those unnervingly blue eyes staring right back at her. She tried a small smile and her captor-turned-employee grinned right back.

They drank in silence. Shared a haunch of rabbit. Neria kept questions close to her chest, doubting she'd get any straight answers, grateful that the woman did the same since she'd lined her palm with gold.

"I'll take first watch," the woman grunted. "You should sleep, Hero."

And despite her qualms, despite a niggling distrust in her chest, Neria curled up among her furs, cradled by brandy and exhaustion, and slept.


	55. Know Me Broken By My Master

 

**Part III: The Lion**

_Know me broken by my master_   
_Teach thee on child of love hereafter_   
_Into the flood again_   
_Same old trip it was back then_   
_So I made a big mistake_   
_Try to see it once my way_

_(Alice in Chains, Would?)_

* * *

The elf remembered him. Evident by the gleam in his amber eyes as they sidled up and down his firelit form. The memory latched on to his shame like a vice, feeding it, making it flare in his chest. He turned away, keeping his embarrassment to the shadows.

"What were you thinking?" The Herald said, still in his customary full-plate as he seethed across the war room. "Taking a dangerous mage to look for an even more dangerous mage?" His glare settled on Leliana. "Answer me!"

"Dorian volunteered," the Spymaster shrugged. "He wanted to help Neria..."

"That woman needs no more help," the Herald stopped in his tracks. "I suppose you sent Hawke after her too..."

"She was with us," the elf crossed and uncrossed his legs, covering a yawn with a lazy hand. "She was not part of our team however."

The weight on Cullen's shoulders heaved to his gut and it was all he could do to stand upright. The incessant, grinding want that had been hammering against his skull became the deep, vibrating hum of guilt. He should tell them...tell them that he'd sent Hawke after Neria...

"Are you alright, Commander?" Cassandra caught his elbow as he swayed slightly, her full-mouth pursed in what could only be concern, all unnoticed by the Herald as he dived full fray into the argument. "You've gone pale."

"I'm fine..." he forced out through gritted teeth, tried to turn his attention back to the others but the Seeker held him firm.

"Do not lie to me," she hissed, scowl deepening. "Go and rest, I shall give them your excuses."

"If only I could," he tried to grin but there was little mirth left in him. "I thank you for your concern but I..."

"What are you two whispering about?" the Herald span and every set of eyes turned to stare at Cullen. He shifted his boots awkwardly, head bowed in contrition, sweat soaking down his spine as his shaking hands gripped the hilt of his sword. He couldn't speak...words dried and died in his throat.

"The Commander is feeling unwell," Cassandra said, eventually . "I was telling him to go and rest, which he refuses to do."

"Go," the Herald's hand indicated the door with a sweeping gesture. "I need you well for the morning."

He didn't need telling twice. The coldness of the day had done nothing to still the sweats and shakes. His stomach contracted around the plain fare he'd forced down hours before. As he walked from the room he felt their gazes as pinpricks on the back of his neck.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could do this.

The walk back to his study was a blur. The torches burnt his eyes, his legs trembled like a new-born calf's, his head reeled and rolled.

He needed to be strong.

As soon as he made it to his rooms the bile rose. His knees buckled. He slammed against the floor. He braced himself with one arm as everything he'd manage to eat that day spluttered out of him.

He gasped, the sour stench of himself burning his nostrils. He heaved again.

When he became aware, he was lying on the cold, hard slate, every muscle in his body contracting, aching. He couldn't say how long he'd been there in the darkness. Dragging himself up, he crawled, wretched and sobbing, to the chair at his desk.

The tears were hot. They stung as they fell. He cried for worry and weakness. He cried because he could do nothing else. He cried until there was only the ringing hollowness. And then, on exhausted legs, he took excruciating steps to the bookcase. 

He'd never thought it would be easy but he'd never imagined this. He'd overcome a thousand adversaries. Survived rebellions and revolutions. Survived when better man had fallen. But he could no longer survive this.

He stared at it and for the longest time his world shrank to the cool vial clenched around his hand. Such a little thing...but so much promise. _So easy,_ he thought, _to drink and let it all be done._

He wracked himself for some resistance; prayers, chants, mantras, they'd worked before but sounded empty now in his dried, cracked voice. They were just words in the wake of this crippling void and that troubled him. Faith has sustained him through a thousand troubles, the Chant had propped him up in his darkest moments...but now...

The hollow void filled with white hot anger. This illness, this addiction, would it leave nothing left of him?Strip everything he'd fought to become? He squeezed the vial, suddenly hating it, hating the Chantry for doing this to him, hating himself for not being strong enough.

His arm coiled itself without thinking. His fingers flung forwards and the lyrium smashed against the open door.

The Herald of Andraste stepped around the shattered glass.

"Maker's breath," Cullen heard himself pant, his chest constricting. "I didn't hear you enter...I..." he paused, took a deep steadying breath. "Forgive me."

The Herald, silhouetted by moonlight, the strain on his face deepening in the light of the guttering torch he held, side stepped the broken vial and vomit, and left the flickering fire in a bracket on the wall. "You told me in Haven that you had everything under control," he crossed his arms. "What's going on?"

Cullen straightened, ignoring the way the floor seemed to fly up to him. "It's fine," he muttered. "I'll.." he flung his hand out to steady himself, cursing under his breath. "You were right," he sighed, leaning over his desk, unsure if he was going to wretch again. "This was a mistake."

"Does that mean you'll listen to me now?" The gruff voice demanded.

Cullen felt that anger again, the old pain clawing its way out of him. He turned from the Herald, unable to look at such accusation. "Did you know Ferelden's Circle was overtaken by abominations?" He wasn't sure why he was confessing such a thing to such a man, but once the pain found an escape it flowed from him like a boiling river. "I was there, Templars, _my friends,_ were slaughtered," he leaned his head against the window, watching his breath steam the glass. "I was tortured. They tried to break my mind," Neria's face swam across his vision, he opened his eyes, not wanting to remember her like that. "How can you be the same person after that? Still. I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall," he spat the word, hating the very sound of it. "I trusted my Knight-Commander. And for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirwall's Circle fell. Innocent people died on the streets. Can't you see why I want nothing more to do with that life?"   

He turned to the Herald then, realising how hard his words hit home. _Am I doomed to repeat myself...again and again...it can only end in madness!_

Maxwell Trevelyan's lip had curled up into a snarl. "Be that as it may, you put your health and your service to the Inquisition at risk."

It hurt to hear it put like that, stung the tatters of his pride. He'd never thought of this as selfish, as irresponsible...but the Herald was right...he'd failed those who depended on him. He was no better than Meredith. "I know," he muttered, feeling the truth of it. "I thought it would be better. That  I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won't leave me..."

He righted himself. The certainty of his conviction making him realise what a fool he'd been. His hand balled itself into a fist. "How many lives depend on our success ? I swore myself to the cause...I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry," he barely noticed the strain in his voice, the agitation clenching around his body. "I should be taking it," he said, a hoarse whisper at first. "I should be taking it!" he shouted, the anger overwhelming him, his fist flew backwards for the second time that day and before he even realised what he was doing it had buried itself into his bookshelf, scattering several tomes and denting the metal of his gauntlets. He pulled his fist free, shame at the ease with which he'd given into his anger creeping up his neck. "I should be taking it."

He clasped his aching knuckles, back to the Herald, unable to look the man in the eye. Only Neria had seen him like this...and even she hadn't witnessed this recent rage. The thought of her; her starlight scent, the compassion in those wide elvish eyes, only made the indignity deepen. _She would hate me if she knew..._

"Good," the Herald's clipped voice snapped him from his self-absorption. "It will take everything we've got to win this war. Every soldier here has made sacrifices. Those soldiers need, no, they _deserve_ you at your best. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," he murmured. "There will be no more distractions."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send hate mail too...  
> I'm kidding... sort of... ;-)  
> A whole heap of in game dialogue is present here and I know it's not EXACTLY how things go down in game, but please forgive the liberties I have taken!   
> Thank you so much for reviews, they keep me a nourished and happy author!


	56. Bad Habit

**Part III: Hero and Hawke**

_"The ugly marks a_ _re worth the momentary gain."_

_-The Dresden Dolls, Bad Habit_

* * *

 

Something was wrong. She knew it before she was awake. Her hand curled around the hilt of her dagger and she slipped it from its sheath.

The fire had burnt low, the embers lighting little of the shadowy trees surrounding their camp. The moon was high and bright but it lit nothing, shielded by the bony fingers of branches. She slunk into a squat among her furs, listening intently.

Squinting to her right she could just make out the other woman. Hunched under a bow, fingers flirting with the feathers at her back, staring resolutely into the still night.

Nothing moved. The wind didn't rustle the trees, no animal snuffled in the undergrowth.  Neria held her breath.

It was the slightest of sounds. A creak, a scrape, but it had no place in the woodland. Recognition hit Neria as something fluttered overhead.

The arrow pierced the ground where her hand had been seconds before.

"Bastards!" she cursed, lunging to her feet as the first of the attackers broke through the tree-line.

They lumbered, dragged down by the weight of their armour and exhausted by the dark climb to the clearing. Neria's feet flew through the night as veil-fire flashed across her blades. She ground to a halt, slinking low, as the first of them stepped into the firelight and swept his blade high as though to crash into her skull.

Lyrium burned and time stopped. Neria side-stepped the assault in a haze of blue magic, the blow stirring the air next to her ear as her dagger found the soft flesh between slats in heavy armour. The man stumbled backwards, taking her dagger with him, buried to the hilt in his neck. Neria pulled the Veil tight to her and a blast of fire erupted, lighting the grove, lighting the trees above, lighting the sword and flame emblazoned on the dead man's chest.

_Shit!_

Before she had time to re-arm, before she could pierce the veil again, the next Templar was upon her. She whirled backwards, flinging fire that he easily dodged as her free hand groped for another dagger. She rattled the blade free in time to see the man dip his sword and bow his head, free fist clenched at his side, all illuminated by the eerie blue light that sprang from his very being.

Neria backed up, scrambling out of the cleansing's path. Her heel thudded against a root and she toppled backwards, clinging to her dagger as the light slammed into her chest.

Her throat tore open with screams. She fell to her knees. The cleansing ripped away every molecule of lyrium in her veins.

He approached, the slow, methodical steps of a cautious man, sword tilted towards her, armour glinting in the moonlight. She panted, hands flat on the ground before her, mind desperately reeling, seeking an escape. Her legs were useless, crunched up under her. He was but a sword length away when he dropped his guard into a killing stance. Neria clutched hold of her dagger...

_Nothing else for it..._

And with her last ounce of strength plunged it into her arm.

* * *

Hawke swore softly as she span, firing three shots into the darkness where the Templars were emerging and turning back to the fallen Hero in time to see the flash of a dagger.

Her blood froze. Her stomach dropped into her full bladder. She swallowed, knowing all too well what was coming next.

The Hero screamed. Unnatural, barely human, a sound that took Hawke back to the streets of Kirkwall. The Templar stopped, seeing it suddenly, too shocked to stop her, too shocked to stop his death. The Hero pulled the dagger free from her arm with a jerk, chucking it aside without a thought. 

_Blood Mage._

It was the Templar's turn to scream.

Hawke turned away, bile rising in her throat as she drew another arrow. 


	57. From Whom It Must Be Kept

**Part III: The Warden**

_“A secret's worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept.”_  
_― Carlos Ruiz Zafón_

* * *

 

"Get up."

Neria cautiously opened one eye, wincing, certain she'd been stamped on by an ogre. A moan formed in the back of her throat. Knees curled into her stomach and hands covered her forehead.

Footsteps crunched, each one a death knell against her skull. "Get up."

She tried to explain but grunts were all she could make.  Firm hands gripped her, shook her and finally pulled her from the ground.

It was still night. The moon rustled and danced and shone on the armour of several corpses. The stench of death filled the grove. Blood, thick and oily, made rivers and pools among the shrubs and coated Neria like sticky sweat.

"I know what you are."

And though her mind was filled with wool and her vision a blur of night and silver, Neria knew what the woman meant. Her arm was still sodden with blood, gushing with a wound that would not heal. Her companion had seen.

She supposed she should be grateful that the swarthy woman was not holding a blade to her throat, that her speech was not full of fear or accusation, that she hadn't awoken on the other side of the Veil, among the dead. She worked her tongue around her mouth, seeking the sort of answer that was expected of her.

"I am," she muttered, eventually. No pride, no guilt, just admittance. There was no use trying to squirm away from the truth.

"Why?"

Neria blinked. It was not the line of questioning she had expected. She looked at her hands, her thin fingers, pale and wan in the moonlight. She sought, but she had no answer, no words that could explain why she'd made a bargain with a demon, so many years ago.

She had been weak. That she couldn't deny. Now, had the same offer been laid before her feet, she would have fought the temptation. She clung to that thought, like a raft in the ocean of uncertainty.

The silence wore on like a tired old song, broken only by the wind and the faint movements the woman's shadow made. Eventually Neria swallowed, opened her mouth to speak and shut it again, hesitant, as the truth surged within.

"I wanted..." she whispered, then cleared her throat. "I wanted to be...better."

It was the only answer she had. It swirled memories that had lain untouched for years. The harsh life of the road after a liftetime in a gilded cage. She'd been so lost, so alone, buckling under the weight of a command she'd never asked for. Of how hard it had been simply to eat, to breathe, to live in a world where every step was a struggle. To do all that and fight; fight hard, fight to live, fight to kill, fight enemies and those who should be friends. Tears rose, bitter and stinging.

"I see..." the woman said, turning away from her to look into the darkness. "Can you walk? We should leave here before dawn."

"That's it?" Neria whispered. "No reproach? No lecture?" She swallowed the rising bile, remembering a certain Templar's reaction to her power. "No threats?"

A breeze fluttered the leaves of the canopy, sending their shadows to ripple beneath them. A glint of moonlight caught in the woman's eyes as she traced Neria's outline with her gaze. "It's not my place to judge."

Neria stumbled to her feet, testing her weight carefully. "We should search the bodies."

The woman gave a curt nod. "There's a stream," she gestured lazily. "You'll want to clean that wound." She grabbed Neria's uninjured hand and clasped her fingers around a bottle that smelled faintly of vinegar. "Be sparing with it."

Dawn had broken by the time the two women left the blood-thick grove, newly armed and freshly bandaged. A silence settled over them, permeating the forest. Neria dared not break it. She was in no shape to argue with her suddenly tight-lipped companion.

They made slow progress, Neria speaking only to guide and the woman nodding gruffly in response, their banter snuffed out like a candle in a breath of wind. Once or twice Neria caught the rogue watching her carefully, as one might watch a wild dog that was somehow leashed; cautious and unblinking.      

Neria let her thoughts drift as they skirted around Amarathine, it was easier than acknowledging her wounds or the distrust she'd clearly sown between them.

They would arrive days late to the meeting point. There was little guarantee that the author of the note would wait for her. She'd always been prickly at the best of times; haughty, prideful. There was no telling how she'd react to Neria's companion, though she had not explicitly stated she should come alone. Worry niggled at her, found her biting the inside of her cheek.

"It'll end badly, you know."

Neria glanced over her shoulder, warily, the thread of her thoughts still tugging her, she could make no sense of the woman's words.

"I had a friend who it went badly for," her companion stopped, staring into the distance. "Ended up with her whole clan dying for the sake of a little power." She spat, as though her mouth had suddenly filled with something sour. "There's always a price."

Neria's mouth opened as though to argue but she snapped it shut before she could speak. A heavy toll to pay, a clan of the dwindling Dalish. Connor's boyish features flitted across her closed eyes. She had seen him many times in her guilt-driven dreams. A sickness clutched around her stomach. She had doomed him with her hunger for power, doomed a boy no more than ten summers to a life of madness and no doubt a bloody death.

She nodded, feeling her mouth forming into a grim line.

"Does the Knight Captain know?"

Her head snapped upwards to meet the cool gaze. She frowned. "Gregoir?"

The lithe woman crossed her arms, wisps of her golden hair shaking loose as she shook her head. "Cullen."

Neria's world crashed down around her ears. As her stomach flipped itself over and a frozen sweat crept down her spine, the cool and calculated part of her mind was piecing together a puzzle. She swallowed, hoping her terror hadn't shown on her face. "He sent you after me."

The woman's armour creaked as she gave a nonchalant shrug. "Perhaps."

"Please don't tell him," the words rushed from her before she could stopper them. She cringed, hating the note of childish panic in her voice. Her companion's mouth twitched, not liking what she heard. "Please," she pleaded, there was no point in trying to dissemble now. "He wouldn't understand."

"That's the understatement of the age," the woman sighed, looked into the clear blue sky as though searching for answers there.

Neria waited, every ache and pain screaming as her body tensed. She hated this. Hated being beholden to anyone, least of all this drunken stranger who had smashed into her life like a bull through a broken gate.

_I could kill her._

The thought came unbidden, from the black part of her soul that deceived and disguised. She tried to bury it, push it down, but the idea had taken root. _It would be better than losing Cullen...than turning him against me._ She had done worse things for a smaller prize.

"We should move," the woman sighed finally. "We're losing light standing here like dumb-struck geese."

"But you..." Neria said through gritted teeth. "You won't tell him..."

The woman sliced her arm through the air, as though drawing a line under Neria's questionings. "I'm not decided," she sighed. "He cares for you a great deal, you know," she added, almost to herself.

Neria's heart clenched like a fist. She did know. But hearing it said so matter-of-factly made the guilt even sharper. "And I for him," she admitted to her feet.

The woman took a long, deep, breath that whistled through a gap in her teeth. "Come on," she muttered. "We should move."

"May I have your name?" Neria asked, made brazen by her lack of things to lose. "As you know so much about me."

"Hawke," the woman said, after a time. "Catrin Hawke."


	58. A Productive Hate

**Part III: The Crow**

_"Hate must make a man productive. Otherwise one might as well love."_

_-Karl Kraus_

* * *

 

There were subtle differences between his work as a spy and his work as an assassin. True enough, the skills he learned on the streets of Antiva crossed over into this more... delicate work. Sneaking when night wouldn't hide you, fixing one's face to any situation, stalking a mark without leaving a trace ...these were things that were simply second nature to any assassin worth his silver. The differences began at the end-game. Where Zevran had once been used to a release, a satisfying conclusion, a sharp end to a story of patience, the work of a spy brought no such gratification.

_I cannot kill the man._ He had to keep reminding himself. It became a daily mantra. The more time he spent in the Herald of Andraste's delightful presence the more his mask cracked. Little slips of his true feelings burst from his tight facade; the cluck of disapproval he couldn't stifle, the balling of his fists behind his back, his glass clinking the table a little too hard, these things he should have been able to bury... but the man was impossible.

Dusk settled over the fortress like a lover's hushed breath. The day time clatter all extinguished but for the flicker of life from the tavern. Zevran ran a cleaning route; slowly picking his way through the castle, careful to stop at every opportunity.  

He lingered over-long in the library, plucked a book from a shelf and tucked it under his arm with a grin. Soon he became certain that no one followed him, so he climbed the stairs to Leliana's rookery, two at a time, making no more noise than a cautious man might.

The bard watched him over steepeled fingers as he ascended the last of the steps and dipped into a flourishing bow. The birds gave him a warmer greeting; cawing and clattering in their cages. When she turned back to the papers on her desk with a roll of her eyes, he slumped into the chair opposite, making a pretence of examining his nails.

When she said nothing he knew he'd entered unconsciously into a battle of wills. He flicked the pages of the book idly, the fluttering of parchment lost to the indignant screeching of his feathered brethren. Growing bored of the bard's silence he decided to force her hand. Lounging his weight backwards with a sigh, he brought his legs up in a spiral, carefully and deliberately placing his boots on her desk.

This won him a glare, colder than the icy heights of Skyhold itself. "Fine," she sighed eventually. "What is it you want?"

"Why must it be want, my dear?" he shrugged. "Perhaps I simply come here to bask in your radiant beauty?"

Once, this would have made her features crack like porcelain. No longer. She held that glass-sharp gaze upon him as though it were a dagger at his throat. "I'm very busy, Zevran." Carefully, thinking that he wouldn't notice, she covered the report she'd been reading with her elbow. _Interesting...secrets within secrets._

"Ah," he gave an exaggerated sigh. "You are so ...changed, my dear. Can I say it doesn't suit you at all?"

"I don't have time for small talk," she muttered. "Either say your piece or go find someone else to bother."

"As you insist," he said, abandoning his comfortable recline for a stance more suitable for secret telling. He leaned on her desk, close enough to see how little time had lain its hands on the bard's supple skin. "I want to kill him."

He said it quietly, no more than a shiver of breath, but the bard winced as though he'd shouted.

"Not. Here," she said, showing him her perfectly white teeth, gritted into a snarl.

"Of course. Skyhold's too populated with fanatics to..."

She cut the air with her arm and he smirked into the silence. "Stop," she hissed. "This is not the place."

He puffed out his cheeks in an exasperated breath. "Paranoia is an ugly look. We are quite alone..."

She ignored him, plucked her quill from the desk and scrawled a line of writing onto a clean parchment pulled from her desk. The ink still glistened as she slid it where he could see.

_Neria's rooms at midnight. Do not be followed and do not be late._

He nodded and she swiped the parchment from the desk, smudging the ink before stoking the brazier with her words.

She didn't look at him as he stood to leave. He shrugged, _her loss_. Resisting the urge to slam the door he sauntered out into the cold night air.

He stood for a moment, watching the workings of Skyhold at night; the distant torches twinkling along the battlements, the occasional roar of laughter from the tavern below, the distant hammering of the overworked smithy. He breathed the frozen air deep, tucked the book into his belt, and vaulted over the wall.

The climb down was marvellous. Each foothold a gift from the Maker, each protruding stone the perfect fit for his dexterous hands. He was smiling again by the time he reached the ground.

He strolled through the makeshift paths in the snow, careful with his footing on the treacherous ice, making his way to the outer courtyard of the fortress.

The infirmary was still a hive of activity. The sick do not cease to be sick simply because night falls. The cloying stench of death and urine was underpinned by the sharp scent of elfroot and vinegar, all cloistered together in the tiny line of shacks, it made for a sickening cocktail.

The woman that sat behind the desk of the entrance hall smiled as he approached, making her worn features into a glimpse of sunshine among the clouds. "I've told you before that visiting hours are between nine tolls and twelve tolls."

"And I've told you before that you're ravishing when you smile," he purred, walking his fingers across the desk until they were halfway between him and the healer. The compliment put colour into her cheeks and made her watery blue eyes dart here and there.

"The rules are there for a reason," she muttered, self consciously tugging a lock of hair free from her tightly woven bun, twirling the brunette ribbon around ink-stained fingers.

"To be broken?" He whispered.

Her laugh was almost as pretty as she was. He smiled at his prize. "He's in a difficult mood," she glanced at him, and quickly back to the desk. "You may wish to come again on the morrow."

"Nonsense," he said. "How much more difficult can he be?"

She shook her head, cheeks dimpling as she grinned again. "Go on, then," she waved him onwards down the corridor. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away and when he threw a smile over his shoulder she went the colour of beetroot from her hairline to her neckline.

He chuckled to himself. _I am still ridiculously awesome._

_If only the mage would be moved as easily._ He frowned at the thought.

Zevran had been in love twice in thirty or so years of life. The first time he attributed to hormonal urges, all too common among young men upon meeting a beautiful, accomplished, devastating woman. It had ended in blood.

The second time he'd been more aware of the process. Far too aware. It had come as quite the shock to discover his uncomfortable attachment. He'd tried everything to shake her from his thoughts but his flails just trapped him tighter. It too, had ended in blood, but of a very different sort.   

Suffice to say he knew the symptoms of the disease and could spot even the earliest of signs; palpitating heart, lack of sleep, incessant thoughts of the desired object, manipulating circumstance to be in their presence.

He was being a fool...of course. _Correlation does not imply causation,_ Neria's clipped voice sounded as though she were next to him. She was right, when was she not? Just because something looked like death, tasted like death, acted like death it did not always mean it was death. He supposed the same was true with love; though he was no expert on the matter.

He boxed those thoughts up tight as he came close enough to the mage's sickroom to hear the voices raised in argument.

"It's a simple bloody request, woman! "

"We have enough work without running some pampered noble's errands."

"Pampered?!" Dorian roared. "Pampered?! If you think for one moment that the Tevinter Court was pampered then you're obviously as stupid as you are ugly. Now listen here..."

"Enough!"

Zevran rounded the corner in time to see the matron slam her fist onto the bedside table. "I've had it up to here with your attitude. Friend of the Herald's or no, I'm done. Get better on your own, you miserable son-of-a-whore."

She shoved Zevran aside, moving swiftly as a thunderstorm out into the hallway. Her footsteps echoed across the wood long after she was out of sight. 

"You really have a way with women," Zevran leaned against the doorway, hands reaching around his back to check the book was still there.

Dorian scowled from his sick bed. "That _thing_ is not a woman..she's a harpy in human clothing. A demon of despair sent to mock me in my distress," he grimaced, hands flinging to his wounded leg. "I am sick of being sick! There is no tedium as thorough as lying abed with no occupation... and the rotten cherry upon the cake of misery? I'm surrounded by...by...by..." he broke off grasping at his knee.

"By handsome elves wanting to tend your every whim?" Zevran slouched into the room, seductively, his fingers fluttering over the leather binding at the small of his back.

"Humph..." Dorian crossed his arms and slumped back against his pillows. "More like sour-faced harridan's who don't know the first thing about bed-side manners!"

A grin touched the corners of Zevran's mouth  at the irony behind those words. "Then you are grateful for my presence, no?" 

"At this juncture I'd be grateful for the company of a pig if it knew the art of conversation,"  Dorian huffed. "Though, yes, you are much easier on the eye than some boar...and perhaps not as offensive to the nose."

"Such high praise," Zevran murmured. "And the pig would almost certainly not come bearing gifts..."

Dorian arched a dark eyebrow, testily. "Come then," he snapped. "Don't keep me waiting, I'm in no mood..."

Another time Zevran would have drawn it out, insisted on banter, pushed the mages buttons until he was in quite the froth...but he knew when to be difficult and when to be silent...sometimes, at least. In a delicate movement he untucked the book from his belt and proffered it with a grin and a bow.  "For your perusal, my dear."

Dorian peered down his nose at the embossing on the cover and sniffed in snooty disappointment. " _The Thrilling Adventures of the Black Fox of Orlais..._ really Zevran...you might as well have brought me _Hard in Hightown_ and be done with it!"

"Oh?" Zevran grinned, head still tucked to his chin. "Would you like me to fetch Varric...I'm sure he'd sign you a copy... perhaps even give you a reading..."

"By Andraste's burning knickers, please don't," Dorian cringed. "Just leave it on the side...it'll be better than counting cobwebs, no doubt."

Zevran brushed aside carefully arranged bottles and bandages and nestled the book between them. His mage's dark eyes followed his every movement and so he made a show of it as best he could. He perched at the foot of the bed, earning him his second glare that evening. "How long until you are able to walk?"

"I suppose it'll be forever now that the hag refuses to heal me," Dorian replied, sulkily. "She mentioned at least a week before she could no longer keep a civil tongue in her head."

Zevran was not accustomed to nervousness. He picked invisible threads off the white sheets. "It would be better were it sooner."

"Has the cold addled your wits?!" Dorian sighed. "Of course it would be better were it sooner!"

Zevran tsked in the back of his throat. The mage was in no mood to catch his subtle meaning, he would have to be frank. "There is something I must tell you."

"Oh, don't go all po-faced on me, there's only so much solemnity one man can bear!"

Zevran winced. "The Herald has not...paid you a visit, I assume?"

"Maker, no!" Dorian sighed. "I'm in enough pain as it is without his holiness attempting conversation."

Zevran hesitated. He hated being the bearer of bad news but who else would dare rattle the haughty mage's cage when he was clearly in a snapping mood. He took a deep breath, spread his palms to the ceiling and sighed long and hard.

* * *

 


	59. Preludes

**Part III: The Witch**

 

_You tossed a blanket from the bed,_

_You lay upon your back, and waited;_

_You dozed, and watched the night revealing_

_The thousand sordid images_

_Of which your soul was constituted._

 

_-T.S Eliot, Preludes_

 

* * *

Somewhere, through the thick plastered walls and vaulted ceilings, a bell chimed the hour. She waited. With each toll her nails bit deeper into her palms. Twelve chimes in all and she hissed

Late. It was so like _her_ to be late. It wasn't as though she had the time to indulge such frivolity, such rudeness, but _she_ had not given the witch much choice. And if the witch hated anything it was being backed into a corner.

Quick fingers made rapid work of concealing the entrance to the adjoining room, making glowing gestures in the air and muttering incantations before secreting the tiny halla statue in a discreet fold of her dress.

Those same quick fingers went to the clasp at her throat and she shrugged her cloak off with an irritable gesture. It pooled at her feet and in a flash of defiance she left it there, a lake of black velvet among the plush red landscape. She glared at it, as though the inanimate garment were somehow to blame for her foul mood. In a swish of silks and flurry of candlelight she stalked to her dressing table.

Ten years. More than some get for a lifetime. She was sure it didn't show on her face despite the hardships she'd endured. True, she had more finery; she was not so vain as to disregard the silver and velvet, the powders and polish. They helped maintain a certain agelessness, a regality to her looks that she couldn't have hoped to achieve a decade before.

The daily process of removing these trappings helped to calm her. When she glanced back into her looking glass, an ordinary mirror, she could not help but see the woman she'd been before.

It was a weakness of hers that had become all too troublesome of late. Her past seemed writ upon her skin, unhidden in her eyes, as though it sought any way it could to squirm from her.  

She indulged it for a moment as ignoring it seemed impossible.

Neria Surana had been a chit of a girl the first time she'd met her. Pale-skinned, thin as a snake, with those doe-bright eyes flickering here and there, constantly vigilant. Morrigan had thought her a weak thing when she'd first lain eyes upon her. A bird, caged and broken, with none of the wild left within.

How very wrong she'd been.

Morrigan had never been one to delight in the company of others. People, as a general rule, made her sick with their ignorance. A circle mage should have been worse than the others. But Neria Surana was no Chantry slave.

She'd learnt that in heart of the Wilds, in the bowels of an elven temple, and in the halls and chambers of Kings. Underneath that skinny, scared, countenance was a rod of iron will, a whip-quick wit and, most surprisingly of all, a tolerance that weaved the disparate threads of misfits and lost causes together.

In the end she called her sister.

In the end she broke her heart.

She shook her head...such sentimental nonsense was unbecoming of her. This is why she didn't indulge in such frivolous thoughts. And the stinging in her eyes? T'was the witch-wood unguent cleansing her pores. Nothing more.

She was about to slip between the sheets, to sleep away the memories that clustered close to her chest, when a ringing in the back of her mind spoke of a broken ward more than a hundred miles away.

She had finally come.


	60. The Other Side Of A Mirror

**Part III: The Warden**

_"Her hair stood back on either side,_

_A face bereft of loveliness_

_It had no envy now to hide,_

_What once no man on earth could guess,_

_It formed the thorny aureole_

_Of hard, unsanctified distress."_

_-Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, The Other Side of a Mirror_

* * *

"Well isn't this nice?" Hawke raised an eyebrow, inclining her head to the mountainous ribcage looming in front of them. "I can just imagine the type of person who would arrange a meeting here; all bravado and no style."

Neria couldn't help but leap upon the words, the first Hawke had spoken since she'd given up her name. "It beats the usual suspicious back room of an inn, does it not?"

"I'm not convinced..." Hawke sighed, warily approaching the bleached bones of the ancient beast. "I think I prefer cloak and dagger to macabre and morbid. You know those vultures have been circling for hours?"

She wasn't wrong. The birds swooping against the full moon had trailed the two women since the rocky mountains had given out to the wastes. Occasionally their bickering and cawing gave life to the silent graveyard, resounding off charred rocks and burnt trees. All sound carried strangely here, even the soft tread of their boots against the gravelly earth seemed to catch among the dead things. _A sign of the thinning Veil._ It was an apprehensive thought.

Throughout their journey they'd avoid the cracks in the sky. It was no easy task, sending them far off course like ships in a storm. Neria kept one eye on the stars, waiting for the eerie flash of green light, the thunderous snap of the Veil being rent, the unmistakable stench of sulphur and spent lyrium, but it did not come.

Cautious, like pillagers in a temple, she led the way among the countless skulls of prey and predator. Death had made them equal but for their size, the withered head's of dragons lay just as still as the fractured remains of their victims.     

Hawke become tight-lipped once more as they skulked through the darkness, picking their way through the wastes by the light of the moon. Neria let instinct guide her feet, not knowing what to expect from the woman she once called sister.

And then, it was in front of her.

She had read about such artefacts in the romanticised fables of yore, in rhymes sung to children in the cradle, in fairytales and fantasies. But as with many stories there must've been a breath of truth to the tales of the Elven mirrors...the Eluveans.

"Maker's balls," Hawke swore behind her. "Do all blood mages have one of these? Like...some sort of certificate? Congratulations on selling your soul, here's a spooky ass mirror to commemorate the occasion?!"

It looked as though it had grown from the ashen soil, bark twisted and turned around the glass, framing it too perfectly to be an accident. Statues stood as though at guard, made faceless by time and blackened by flame. So enraptured was Neria with the Eluvian that it took some time for Hawke's words to sink in.

"You've seen one of these before?" She whispered. "Where?"

Hawke shrugged, a sneer of disgust curling up her mouth. "Does it matter? Maker-forsaken things."

Neria stepped close enough to touch the glassy surface. Somehow it did not reflect the wasteland around it but a smooth, uniform, grey. There was something...hungry about it, as tough it craved her touch, her attention. She hesitated for a second, letting the strange sensation wash over her. She pulled away.

"In the old stories they have a key..." she muttered, stepping backwards . " _To connect both of thee, there must be a key, stone and soil and roiling sea_..."

"Didn't know you were a poet," Hawke muttered.

"It's an old children's rhyme," Neria bit her lip. "I always thought it was nonsense."

"Sounds like nonsense to me," Hawke moaned. "Are we waiting here then?" She asked, already half-way through shrugging of her pack. "At least it's out of the wind."

Neria was about to respond when something flashed at the edge of her vision. She span, mouth agape, as the uniform grey shifted and danced like ripples on a pool. A faint humming prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. The mirror's surface began to glow. The hum intensified, rattling the glass against the wood, shivering down her spine like a lover's caress. When Neria was sure it would splinter and shatter she threw up a hand to cover her eyes.

And it ended. As sudden as it began. Her hand fell to her side.

She was no more than an outline but Neria would know that form anywhere.

For a long while the two witches simply stared at each other like cats meeting unexpectedly on shared territory. Neria felt an old, bitter, anger surge at the sight of her; unchanged after all those years, still effortlessly beautiful, still elegant and other-worldly. She swallowed the rising bile, knowing nothing good could come of it. She'd made that decision long ago, slept in the bed of her own making for a decade now....there was no time for regrets.  

"A tad dramatic, don't you think?" 

Those bewitching amber eyes snapped from her face and narrowed behind her. "You were supposed to come alone."

"I think we're far past 'supposed-tos', Morrigan," Neria snapped, her rage gaining ground thick and fast.

For a second something flickered behind the witch's composure...as thought she'd struck a nerve. "Truly? Still angry after all these years? I suppose it's too much to expect a little gratitude."

"Yes," Neria hissed, sarcasm rising. "I should thank you for putting me between a rock and a hard place..."

"You should thank me for saving your life," Morrigan shrugged, a fluid, elegant gesture. "'Twas...perhaps not the best of solutions, I grant you, but a solution none-the-less."

"Excuse me," Hawke coughed. "As heart-warming as this reunion is, I'm sure we didn't trek across a war zone so you two could trade barbs?"

"Quite," Morrigan  said, curtly. "Do you wish for my aid or do you not, 'tis a simple decision?"

"What exactly are you offering?" Neria folded her arms across her breastplate, trying to keep the sneer from spreading across her face. "And what exactly is the price?"

She gripped the hilt of her sword as Morrigan's hand moved in a blur of speed disappearing into the flowing silk of her sleeve. "Be still, Warden...'tis nothing harmful."

"I shall be the judge of that."

Morrigan gave an exaggerated sigh, the low cut of her gown rising and falling with her breath. "So untrusting..."

"And you blame me?" Neria said. "Be out with it, I've no time for your drama."

A rustle of fabric, the crackle of parchment and Morrigan held something between them. Gold glistened in the ghostly light of the Eluvian and Neria narrowed her eyes. "A piece of paper...you made us travel across Ferelden for something a crow could carry?"

"Crows can be intercepted, shot down by even a peasant's arrow. You however..."

Neria snatched the paper from the witches hand, shaking her head in disgust. Upon the thick folded vellum a name had been written in golden foil. It was not a name that made her smile. "Maxwell Trevelyan?" she hissed.

Morrigan shrugged. "You work for him, no? He who they call the Herald of Andraste..."

She span the parchment around. The letter was sealed with golden wax and upon it was stamped the mask of Orlais. Only one person had the right to that seal in that colour. "So you can give us the Empress." It wasn't a question. There was no doubt. "How?"

"She gave me the letter..."

"No," Neria said. "How did you end up in the Orlesian court?"

"I thought you were pressed for time, Warden?" Morrigan's amber eyes glittered, knowingly. "T'will suffice you to know that the document I offer is an invitation. An invitation extended to those of the Inquisition. An invitation to Halamshiral."

"At Celene's request or yours?"

"I am not in the position to offer such things," Morrigan sighed, those long dangerous fingers of hers reaching to fiddle with the jewels at her neck. "I am merely a humble messenger."

"And at what cost?" Neria gripped the parchment but did not accept it. "A thousand virgins? An archdemon's heart? The soul of an Old God?"

Morrigan held her gaze, lips twitching irritability. "There's no need to be callous, Warden."

"Oh?" Neria hitched an eyebrow. "Is there not? I recall the last time I made a deal with you and how similar it felt to being stabbed in the back."

"Tis not for my own sake I come," Morrigan said, quietly, meekly.

Neria huffed her derision. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"The Empress is in danger," Morrigan snapped her eyes up from where they lingered at her feet. "I have done all I can to protect her but...I fear 'tis not enough."

"Rulers are constantly in danger," Neria shrugged. "What exactly can the Inquisition do that a hundred Orelesian chevaliers cannot?"

"It is...a delicate situation..."

"Civil wars usually are..."

"Will you hear me out?" A flash of anger broke through her porcelain facade. "Or shall I be forced to listen to your inane twitterings every remark I make?"

"Oh, do go on, my lady of the wilds," Neria gestured for her to continue. "I shall keep my witty retorts to myself."

Morrigan's lips wrinkled together, tighter than a miser's purse. For the first time Neria noticed the thin lines around her mouth, the purple bruise of sleeplessness that her powders couldn't hide, a silver scar across the back of her left hand...a very small part of her felt a stab of pity...but it was quickly stifled by anger and guilt and not a little jealousy.

"I have reason to believe..." Morrigan muttered. "That someone within the court has allied themselves with the Inquisition's enemies."

 


	61. Judgement

**Part III: The Crow**

_"For there can be no judge of a criminal on earth until the judge knows that he, too, is a criminal, exactly the same as the one who stands before him."_

_-Fydor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karmarazov_

* * *

"You bloody well what?!" Dorian attempted to lunge from the bed, clearly forgetting his wounds in hysteria. He screamed, a surprisingly high and girlish noise completely at odds with his usual drawling baritone. Zevran was quickly on his feet, gently but firmly forcing the mage back against the pillows.

"Now, now, my dear," Zevran muttered. "There is no need to...exhaust yourself."

"There bloody well is!" Dorian struggled and the assassin was surprised at the strength behind it. "A trial?! I've done nothing wrong!"

"Sssshhh," Zevran risked a glance over his shoulder to the open door. "There is another way..."

"You're going to suggest I run, aren't you?" Dorian growled. "Well I shan't! I've ran enough in my life...I'll face the bastard and his jury..."

"Dorian," he whispered, squeezing the mage's shoulder. "I do not suggest this course...."

"Well..." Dorian's fevered eyes hardened. "Bugger your suggestion. Help me out of this bed. I intend to speak with him..."

Zevran saw his plans unravelling before his eyes, a feeling he was used to. He gripped the mage harder until he could feel the man's bones against his finger tips. "I have organised a way out," he whispered. "I'll take you to Denerim...to the palace. Though no match for the opulence of Orlais it will be much more comfortable than a cell."

"If you think I'll sneak off like a rat in the night then you do not know me as well as you think," Dorian hissed right back, flecks of spit hitting Zevran's face. "What charges will he lay at my feet, hmm?"

"Desertion," Zevran said, matter-of-factly. "For which you may hang."

Dorian's mouth opened and closed. His wan face paling further. "Then why am I not under guard? Why's there not a Templar constantly at my side?"

"You are watched," Zevran muttered. "And guarded by your own injury."

"Maker's balls," Dorian muttered, "This is not some plan of yours to whisk me off on a romantic getaway?"

"Oh, believe me, I wish it were," Zevran smiled, softening his touch. "Will you think on it at least? I have to go."

"You're leaving me?" Dorian sighed. "After that bad news? Nothing to soften the blow?"

"I'd thought you'd been told..." Zevran muttered. "Though I could certainly think of a thing or two that would...take your mind from your misery."

"And you in such a haste to leave?"

Zevran smirked. "I do quick work." 

Dorian shook his head. "You ser, are a scoundrel."

"Oh?" Zevran quirked his eyebrow. "I did not mean to insult your honour."

Dorian waved him away. Zevran did not have to feign disappointment. "Off with you, before I call the matron back."


	62. The Mirror Crack'd From Side To Side

**Part III: The Warden**

_“_ _Why shouldn't I hate her? She did the worst thing to me that anyone can do to anyone else. Let them believe that they're loved and wanted and then show them that it's all a sham.”_

_-Agatha Christie, The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side_

* * *

 

"I suppose it's too much to ask for a name?" Neria sighed.

"My position in court is not as such that I can launch an investigation..."

"They don't trust you?" Neria sang it in a childish fashion. "Why am I not surprised?"

Morrigan's icy demeanour cracked, she snarled like a she-cat, eyes silted with rage. "Your history is hardly all white sheets and holy chants, Warden. By what right do you judge me?"

"By the right of being one you betrayed," her voice rang off the rocks and bones, around the valley where they stood. "You called me sister..." she spat, "I...trusted you and where did it get me?"

"Alive!" Morrigan spat the word like it was poison in her mouth. "Both you and that idiot that trailed you..." She took two steps forward, closing the gap between them in a swoop of silk.

Neria reached for the dirk at her back. All anger and heat, she yanked it from the sheath. Morrigan blanched backwards as the blade swayed between them. 

"Ladies!" Hawke rushed to intervene, hands moving quicker than Neria's could, white-knucking her knife wielding wrist. "This is really very unseemly..." she came close enough that her breath stirred the hair near Neria's ear. "We can be civilised, yes? Put our past away like the adults we are..."

"I am happy to do so," Morrigan rolled her shoulders back, folding her arms as she looked to the sky. "'Tis the Warden who remains so tiresomely angry."

Hawke yanked her arm downwards with such force that it jarred her shoulder. She winced. "Put it away."

Neria made a derisive sound in her throat, snatched her arm away and thunked her blade back into its leather scabbard. "A list of suspects would be useful," she said, struggling to keep her voice level. "You could conjure that up, at least?"

"I could," Morrigan's bejewelled fingers winked as she waved the question away. "But what would be the point? The Empress' enemies are as numerous as stars in the night sky, though sadly not as distant."

"I've come to learn we've more to fear from friends than from enemies," Neria's anger was whispered this time. "Who does she trust? Who does she show her back to ?"

"Why, no-one, of course..." Morrigan said , scathingly. "She's the Empress of the Great Game, Warden. You could not have forgotten the steps to that dance so easily?"

"Perhaps her list of enemies would not be so long were she a little more trusting."

"Oh, come now," Morrigan sneered. "You're not so naive as the believe such childish nonsense. Were the rules of the game written, 'don't trust anyone' would be the first."

Neria's knuckles clicked as her fist clenched. Little crackles of energy played across her fingertips. _Maker, it would feel good to punch that smarmy smile off her face .._.

"Changing the subject...rather swiftly," Hawke said, nudging her with a well placed elbow. "What exactly are you asking of the Inquisition...you wish us to attend Halamshiral and... what? Watch out for  towers of red lyrium bursting through the floors of the _Le Palais d'Hiver_? Stop the hoards of  Venatori rushing the palace guards and waging war on the _hor d'oeuvres_? Check none of the guests are hiding lyrium-deformed limbs under their petticoats...?"

"Are you done?" Morrigan said.

 Hawke shrugged. "I could probably keep going..."

"What I ask of you is simple," Morrigan cut across her. "Root out this danger...using any and all means possible..."

"Why do you care so much?" Neria said, the petulancy of her own voice only adding to her irritation. "Has the black-hearted witch finally found something she can love?"

"If Celene falls, I fall," Morrigan said, curtly.

"And your _child_ falls..."

Neria knew she'd stepped across some invisible divide as soon as the words left her mouth. Morrgian's face crumpled, her wine painted lips pulled back to reveal her teeth, her amber eyes framed with a scowl, she looked every inch a wolf protecting her cub. Neria grinned at having struck a blow and then swallowed at the shame and guilt and stupidity of it.

"You will never," and Morrigan's voice was slow and dangerous. "Speak of my son like that again."

It struck the rage from Neria like an axe to the head. "Son..." she repeated, lamely.

" _My_ son," Morrigan hissed. "Don't you give voice to what you're thinking, Warden."

Neria pinched her lips together, her stomach doing flips. "As you say."

The silence was as thick and heavy as a winter's coat. Neria stared at her booted feet, feeling Morrigan's glaring interrogation prickle at her scalp. She bit the inside of her cheek, twirling her fingers over and under each other behind her back. "We should get going," she whispered eventually. "I will..." she broke off, swallowing down the sudden lump of misery in her throat. "I will pass your message on to the Herald. I will leave a response where you left the letter."

She turned to leave, beckoning Hawke after her, suppressing the irritating urge to look behind, to take one more glance at the woman she'd once called friend.

"Warden?"

She swallowed. Snapped her gaze backwards. She still stood there, silhouetted by the light of the eluvian, her expression all hidden in shadow. "What?"

"Do not..." she whispered, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. "Do not tarry," she said, any vulnerability vanished in the a wave of haughty demand. "This is important."

Neria had no response. So she turned. And she walked away.


	63. Spies Like Us

**Part III: The Crow**

_We don't know the meaning of fear_   
_We play every minute by ear_   
_One for all and all for one_   
_Everybody's on the run_   
_Especially at this time of the year_ **  
  
**

_Paul McCartney, Spies Like Us._

* * *

He almost stepped into Leliana as she waited patiently in the darkness. Her arms shot out to steady him, her breath enticingly close as she whispered for his silence. He obeyed, and the bard gripped his wrist and plunged further into the darkness.

She navigated the twists and turns of the complete blackness with a precision that said she'd been doing this for some time. He was dimly aware when they passed the door to Neria's rooms and down even deeper into the belly of the fortress. There was no sound here, stifled as it was by the weight of rock and the dank foreboding gloom. She took a sharp left, a sudden right and Zevran began to wonder if she was attempting to confuse him, to lead him about like a dog on a leash until he didn't know which way was up. If that was the case then she'd clearly mistaken his skill, he remembered every downwards step, every quick veer in direction, every intrepid opening of doors, as though they were in the light of a summer's afternoon.

She dragged him down a stairwell and by the echoes of their footsteps he could tell they'd entered a vaulted space. They crossed what felt like cobblestones until Zevran could clearly see the outline of a doorway, traced in a dim green light. Leliana knocked twice in quick succession and the hinges of the old wood creaked open.

In what appeared to be a broom closet, lit by the strange orb of fade fire hovering in mid air were those, Zevran had to assume, gathered by a shared hatred of the Herald of Andraste. He was, to say the least, a little disappointed.  


	64. Contrails

**Part III: The Warden**

_"Leaving's your living, it's built in your bones_  
No one can ever escape all of your ghosts  
So if you walk, you better learn how to run  
That's why I wrote this song  
Your contrail's coated in broken homes  
You polished up this pretty pearl of a hope  
I won't parade your skeletons for everyone  
That's why I wrote this song."

_Astronaut_ _alis, Contrails_

* * *

 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Hawke paused, a greasy haunch of rabbit halfway to her mouth. "Cause it looks like you wanna talk."

"I don't." Neria stared, resolute, into the white hot flame.

Hawke tore into the flesh, noisily smacking her lips together. "Better out than in, I always say." She sucked her teeth, thoughtfully. "Not true of everything though."

Neria glared at the woman as she cheerfully picked her teeth.

"Oh, come on, Warden," Hawke sighed, gesturing with the picked-clean bone as though exasperated. "Lighten up, yes? There have been worse nights."

"You've been drinking," she muttered, it was not a question, she could tell from her fevered speech, that bright glint in her eyes that spoke of a smirk.

"You want some?" Hawke swilled the skin between them. "Rabbit's good too."

Neria grimaced, looking suspiciously at the proffered bottle, the fumes of which wrinkled her nose. "Where did you even find it?"

"On a corpse...back at the bone pit," Hawke shrugged. "Oh, don't be such a joy-spoiler...wine only gets better with age..."

"And poison? Does that get better with age?" Neria said, mocking her tone.

"I'd know if it were poisoned," Hawke shrugged, all nonchalance. "Come on," she swished the liquid again. "Just a wee gulp! It'll put hairs on your chest."

Neria took the skin reluctantly and brought it up to her nose. "Maker's tears..."

"Drink it! Don't sniff it!"

She wondered if could be worse than the last time a near stranger had cajoled her into drinking a mysterious concoction . _Hopefully the survival rate is better for wine found in a dragon's grave than for the Joining's cocktail of  blood and lyrium._ She should really stop making it a habit to be so sarcastic when she was angry, but old habits die hard deaths. She grabbed the wineskin.

Two hours later both women lay flat on their backs staring at the stars, the wine skin long emptied and forgotten in the shadows of the dying fire. The glistening jewels ahead were blurred and swaying as though she were spinning, but Neria was quite sure she was motionless. Her mind groped through the fog of drunkenness, trying to remember what she'd been saying mere moments before.    

"Least the darkspawn are upfront about it," Hawke stumbled over the words, relieving Neria of the duty of remembering. "Not ever gonna be smiling while they stab you in the back."

Neria snorted, a very sober part of her mind not knowing what she found so funny. "Don't be so quick to judge...you don't see the worst of them above ground." That same slither of her mind wished fervently it had control of her mouth. "Whilst I was stationed in Amarathine, I met a darkspawn who could speak..."

"Oh, I know all about them," Hawke said with a shrug. Neria threw her a disbelieving look, which she immediately regretted as it set the world to reeling again. "Didn't you know? I killed Corypheus..."

Neria scrutinised the moonlit woman she lay beside. She could detect no flicker of a lie. "That sounds like quite the story..."

"Oh it is!" Hawke smiled suddenly, glancing across at her with hooded eyes. "You should hear Varric tell it, full of blood magic and blades, of deceit and darkspawn and death..." her grin shifted, became pointed, like a viper might grin if it had the will. "But I've already told a story tonight," she shifted so she lay on her side. "It's someone else's turn I think."

Neria shrugged, feeling a rush of heat go to her head. "I'm no storyteller..."

"I'm not asking for pretty words," Hawke whispered. "You know what I want to know."

"I'm sure I haven't a clue," Neria could feel the woman's stare even though she turned her face towards the sky.

"Alright then," Hawke wriggled closer. "I'll be forthright. How do you know creepy mirror lady?"

"I really don't want to talk about it," Neria groaned, beginning to suspect that Hawke had plied her with alcohol in an attempt to pry this secret from her. "Really...I shouldn't have acted the way I did back there. Please just...forget it..."

"Oh, Warden," Hawke propped her head up on her elbow, her face uncommonly soft. "She hurt you, it's pretty obvious. But if you keep it all bottled up she'll only hurt you more. Believe me," she sighed. "I know what it's like."

"Will it suffice to say she betrayed me when I most needed friends?" Neria pressed her palm to her forehead, surprised at the coldness of her touch. "Even if I wanted to I couldn't say more. It's not just my secret to keep."

"So...she slept with your man, then?" Hawke summarised.

That same sober part of her mind attempted to stifle the groan. It failed.

"Andraste's burning titties!" Hawke exclaimed. "That was a shot in the dark, but I'm right aren't I?"

"Please, stop..."

"Wait a minute..." Hawke propelled herself up in a swift movement that made Neria's stomach do somersaults and turned to her with a look of drooping realisation that made the bile rise again. "Didn't you say something about a son?"


	65. Coaxed

**Part III: The Templar**

_“Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed down-stairs one step at a time.”_

_-Mark Twain._

* * *

 

Dawn. A clear day. Clear enough that you could see the mountains jutting over the horizon, cold enough that the braziers had burnt through the night. He walked the walls, soothed by the rhythmic clanking of his armoured boots, the sweet scent of morning bread being baked far below, the gentle clink of the forge, constantly in use at dawn and dusk alike. As he turned a corner a yawning guard stood to attention, clearly blinking back sleep. He nodded and the man slumped back into relaxation. They traded pleasantries and  he left again before the bells finished tolling the hour.

He stopped halfway across the wall and took in the sunrise. He was in no hurry, for once, he had hours before the Herald would call council and Cassandra was taking that morning's drill. Besides, the sunrise was beautiful and he couldn't remember the last time he'd simply stopped to appreciate the landscape.    

Things were becoming sharper, his thoughts were no longer sluggish, his mind no longer transfixed by the past. It was as though he'd put a whetstone to his very being, shaving off the unnecessary, honing the parts he needed. He was a sword, razor-sharp and waiting. He breathed the fresh air in deeply.       

 "Trouble sleeping, Commander?"

He hadn't heard the footsteps and didn't recognise the voice. He span, hand resting lazily on the hilt of his greatsword.

The elf was smirking. Chin tilted upwards, eyes glinting with mirth, he slung his thumbs through the loopholes of his belt as though to exaggerate the jaunty angle of his hips. The pommels of two twin daggers peaked across his shoulders, hung by belts that crossed his leather encased torso.

In a flash Cullen recognised him. The memory tugged at his good mood. And though he'd neatly boxed away the thoughts of her, they seemed to unlock themselves at the sight of her one time companion.

"No need to fret, Commander," the elf inclined his head to where his fingers gripped the leather. "I am not here to fight."

"Then why are you here?" Cullen growled.

"The same reason you are, no doubt," the elf gestured to colour splashed mountains before them. "To take in the view."

 "Then if you'll excuse me, I have work to be doing," Cullen stalked onwards, the clarity and peace of moments before shattered as he put his back to the elf.

"You were at Kinlock, were you not?" The elf raised his voice slightly. "The only surviving Templar, as I recall..."

"Yes," he grunted, not turning round. It stung what was left of his pride. This utter stranger had seen him at his worst. No doubt pulled that same smirk at his tortured ramblings, no doubt laughed at the mad words that had come from him. He turned back. "What of it?"

"You were in no state for remembering," the elf said it, mischievously...as though it were a matter of little consequence. "But I was also there...accompanying my Warden."

"I recall," Cullen said, through gritted teeth, his fist now utterly clenched around his hilt.

"Ah," the elf, seemingly unaware of the discomfort he was provoking leant his elbow on the wall, his smirk fixed in place, becoming hard, almost like a grimace. "It was some time ago and forgive me if I do not correctly recall," he waved his free hand through the air as though excusing himself for his own forgetfulness, "but I seem to remember you mentioning something about a dalliance with our Hero..."

Cullen glared down at the impertinent elf. "I fail to see how that's any of your business," he forced out from between his clenched teeth.

"Do you?" The elf's tone was light, but something moved behind his eyes that told Cullen he was dealing with a dangerous individual. "Then let me politely inform you, so you won't make the same mistake again," the elf moved, quickly, lithely, springing from his relaxed posture and coming close enough to confess. "I am oathbound to protect her," he whispered and the words were almost a hiss. "And handsome but idiotic Templars are her favourite means of self torture."

Cullen opened his mouth to protest but the elf silenced him with a scowl.

"She is not for you," the elf said. "You will hurt her, betray her and inevitably force my hand. Do you understand?"

Cullen simply stared in stony silence as the elf stepped away. And then... it was as though a cloud had passed over his face, the thunderous anger of moments before, vanished, replaced by a smile that had very little warmth to it. "You should not take it personally," the elf shrugged. "Think of it as...friendly advice."

Cullen swallowed down the rage. "I don't even know your name."

"Ah," the elf tsked, as though admonishing himself. "Such a lack of courtesy. I am Zevran Arainai," he inclined his golden head without taking his eyes from Cullen's. "And if you fail to follow my friendly advice I shall be the man that cuts your throat."

* * *

An hour later and Cullen was pouring over ancient maps of the Frostbacks, ostensibly to look for some forgotten, more direct route from the mountains to the lowlands of Orlais. His mind was not to the task. He shifted and squirmed, occasionally breaking the silence to swear or sigh or, once, to slam his fist against the table. Instead of the intricate lines indicating altitude he saw the elf's changing face, saw his mood shifting from jovial to threatening and right back round again. Instead of puzzling out how best to chart his progress he was obsessively picking over everything he knew about the assassin, slithers of information lodged in his mind that he painstakingly extracted. Instead of finding a way to the lowlands he was finding himself plotting half-baked notions of revenge, of sending a dozen of his men to arrest the swarthy bastard, of telling Neria...of telling the Herald. Eventually he gave up on the work, pushing the maps across the table, pinching the bridge of his nose, and taking a long, deep breath.

With a heart resigned and heavy, he opened the folds of his coat, taking a small vial from his inside pocket and setting it on the table in front of him.

The lyrium glowed in the sunlight.

Adan had advised a slow intake. Three small vials a day, thoroughly watered down, to be taken only with meals. The healer admitted he knew little of lyrium addiction but considered it a wise course to start slow. Cullen had taken his first vial as soon as he'd awoke, forcing down food he didn't want in order to accommodate Adan's instructions. It was his second vial beckoning in the after-dawn light. He tapped his finger against the table. Fighting the urge to take it.

"Cullen?"

He fumbled, spinning to face the voice, scatting the vial over in his careless hand. He lunged after the it but the Spymaster was quicker, catching the vial in her lithe hands before it could smash against the stone floor. She gave it back to him, wordlessly.

"Thank you," he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket where it rested heavily.

"I did not expect anyone to be here," Leliana pulled up a chair and sat across from him. "Especially you. The Herald said you should take as long as you need."

"I'm fine," Cullen said, almost automatically.

"Cullen," Leliana shook her head. "Do not lie to a Spymaster. It's insulting."

Cullen sighed, exasperated. "Well...perhaps fine is overstating it...but I'm ready to return to work." He risked a glance at the Spymaster. She was watching him carefully, her eyebrows slightly hitched. "It's the truth!"

She said nothing, but in such a way as to imply more than speech could.

"Look...I really need this," Cullen gestured to the War Room. "I'm not...I wasn't...made to be inactive..."

"What did Zevran want?" she said it softly but there was a sharpness to it, like a whip cutting through the air just before it cracked.

He felt all of ten years old under her glare. Colour flushed into his cheeks. Despite his childish plans for revenge he couldn't just come out with it. He could deal with the assassin and his threats by himself. "He wanted to talk about Kinloch..." he muttered.

"I see," but the Spymaster was clearly not fooled. "My man seems to think the discussion was...a little tense."

"Kinloch was not a pleasant time for anyone," Cullen said. "You were there...weren't you?"

"You are deflecting, Commander," she replied. "I didn't expect that from you..."

This time Cullen was well aware of the door creaking open. Josephine sang a bright greeting, smiling as she strode across the room. "I hope I am not interrupting?"

"Not at all," Cullen said, earning him a frown from the Spymaster. He pulled the maps across the table. "We were just looking for a quicker route into Orlais."

"Ah, the holy grail," the Ambassador smiled, moving to stand by his shoulder and look over the ancient parchment. "I do not dare to hope that we will find such a road. It would be a major boon to our cause, bringing merchants from the city and crops from the farms," she paused, her dark brown eyes glancing at the Spymaster. "Leliana!" she said the bard's name in surprise and the woman blinked in surprise. "Are you quite well? You look as though you slept on a bed of stone!"

Cullen had barely noticed, embroiled in his own troubles as he was, but the spymaster did indeed look tired...her cornflower eyes were dulled, her perfect complexion a shade paler than usual. Her lips pursed together, as though about to chide the ambassador for her astuteness.   

"Good morning," the Herald boomed, clanking into the war room in his customary heavy plate. "Commander," he nodded to Cullen. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back, Inquisitor," Cullen stood, motioning to the War Table. "We should start, I'm sure we've plenty to catch up on."

"I shall not be staying," the Herald announced. "Now that you're back on your feet, Commander, I intend to move out to the Western Approach."

"But..." the ambassador began, the Herald waved her away.

"I cannot wait any longer for Hawke to return," he said. "She's weeks overdue, and there's no telling what the Wardens will do in her absence."

"Before you leave," Leliana stepped up to the table. "There is a matter we must resolve."

"I know what you're going to say..." the Inquisitor gauntleted hand flashed in the sunlight as he held it up for silence. "I have discussed it with Cassandra and she believes there is no traitorous instinct in the mage. That he was simply...following orders."

Cullen was lost. The Herald's piercing eyes seemed to stare right through the spymaster, and in turn she stared right back, her fists clenched on the table, mouth set into a grim line. "So there will be no trial?" she asked, eventually.

"I will leave it in your capable hands," he indicated the three of them. "I do not truly believe Dorian is a Ferelden Spy but that elf is another matter. You are still having him trailed?"

"Yes," Leliana replied, flattening her palms against the table.

"I do not think it polite that we spy on our guests," the Ambassador shifted, uncomfortably. "If our man is found and word got out...it could ruin our reputation."

Leliana shrugged. "Zevran knows," and when Josie gave a strangled cry of disbelief she continued. "He was an Antivan Crow, Josie, none of my men would be sly enough to tail him. I do not even know if I could do it myself without detection."

"Whether he knows is immaterial," the Herald muttered. "What we want from him is good behaviour. If he knows he is being watched then he will act accordingly."

"Easier to slip a tail when you know you've got one," Cullen grunted. "I don't trust the man. He should not be allowed free range of the fortress. There's no telling who he's reporting back to."

"What are you suggesting?" Leliana asked, perhaps a little sharply. "Who exactly do you think he's working for?"

Cullen crossed his arms. defensively. "You, yourself, mentioned the Antivan Crows. The last thing we need is a blueprint of our defences falling into their hands."

"Zevran is no longer a Crow," Leliana straightened, raising her head to meet Cullen's appraisal. "He has worked for the palace for nearly a decade..."

"So, you're saying there's no way he's a plant...a double agent?" Cullen asked. "I didn't expect you to be so naive..."

"You do not know him," Leliana was clearly struggling to keep her voice stable. "He was instrumental in defeating the blight. He is above your suspicions."

"Enough," the Herald sighed, and turned to Leliana. "I see that you are too...emotionally involved with this case. I will leave it to you, Commander. Restrict the elf as you see fit. I must begin preparations for my departure."   

His footsteps echoed over the tense silence. Leliana no longer hid her disapproval, her porcelain mask cracked with a sour look. He did not often agree with the Spymaster, but she rarely displayed such open hostility to minor differences of opinion. Cullen held his head high for he had done nothing wrong, offering advice was part of his job.

The Ambassador glanced between them, as though waiting for one of them to break. "There are other matters," she said hesitantly. "We must decide who is to attend Halamshiral...there are trade deals to consider..."

"You should not have undermined me like that," Leliana cut across the ambassador. "Keeping tabs on our guests is my jurisdiction..."

"I've considered your advice on martial issues before," Cullen snapped. "Why is this different?"

"Please," Josie interrupted. "This is most unprofessional."

"If you had qualms about Zevran then you should have come to me," Leliana said. "There was no reason to bring the Herald into this."

Cullen's hand found the back of his neck. _It was going to be a long morning._


	66. The Story Makes You What You Are

**Part III: The Champion**   


_“It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”_ _  
_

_-Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind._

__

* * *

War had changed the landscape of the country she called home. The wild heaths that were blackened by the Blight were once again blood soaked, scorched with mage-fire, littered with the debris of broken times; burnt out houses and slow-rotting corpses. Trees bore the heavy fruit of battle; from a budding elm a mage hung, a board around his snapped neck proclaiming him a traitor. The words were branded into the wood by a fiery hand and even the flies seemed to keep clear of the corpse, though they happily paid court to the others strung upon the thick branch.

They passed deserted farmland, where women and boys should be harvesting the first fruits of their spring labour. They passed villages where the doors shut in front of them and eyes peaked out of shuttered windows as they left. They passed people weighed down with life possessions, refugees heading towards Denerim. Most of them old enough to remember the blight and their first slow-procession to the safety of the city walls. They eyed the two women jealously and they moved quickly on, not wanting to provoke any more hostility than they already had. 

And there had been plenty.

On a wind whipped day when their vision was blurred by the spring rain they stumbled upon a small enclave of free mages. They ignored the Warden's plea for peace, her commanding tone buffered by the wind and lost to deaf ears.

It was the first time she'd seen the other woman fight like the legend she was supposed to be.

In the time it took Hawke to pull back her bow the Warden had flown across the battlefield, an almost invisible blur of slaughter, only traceable by the gleam of her sword and the bodies she left in her wake. Hawke had let loose her arrow, which found the heart of a mage too busy gaping to notice her death coming, then lowered her bow and simply watched.

That night she told her about Fenris as the Warden cleaned her armour. She'd listened, seeing the parallels in her own skill and that of the lyrium tattooed Tevinter. She'd muttered under her breath for a time afterwards, theoretical mages jargon that meant little and less to Hawke.

They ate a quiet meal, both too starving to think of much more than shovelling the tasteless stew into their mouths. The rain had died off but everything was soaked through. They huddled near to the fire, under a sodden blanket. The Warden's head lolled against Hawke's shoulder and stayed there. Her  skin was warm through it smelt like winter.

The next day they strayed too close to a rent in the Fade. The demons caught their scent, hurtling over hill as the Warden dropped into a battle stance. Hawke drew her daggers and they fought, back to back, a whirl of blades and curses and magic. They killed five before the Warden managed to freeze the two in front of her and drag Hawke from the surrounding demons. They ran and were chased by a handful of the never-ending horde. Hawke pelted them with arrows until her quiver was empty. The Warden's blade gleamed with melted ice as it seared through the fiery beings.

That night they spoke of love.

At first it was a halting thing. Neria was applying some foul smelling ointment to a burn on Hawke's forearm. The familiarity of her touch, of a bond forged in the heat of struggle, led Hawke to thinking of Isabela, her wild pirate queen, her gold-hearted scoundrel. She wondered what she was doing, right now and the thought brought a lump to her throat. She imagined her with a bottle of rum in hand and a ship swaying under her feet, barking orders at the group of sailors she had no doubt beguiled into some dangerous adventure. The image was so true to life that it made her smile, despite the sharp sting of separation.

"Are you alright?" The Warden sounded softly startled. "You look like you're about to cry but...you're smiling."

Her words seemed to force the matter. Twin tears fell to her lap as she sighed out a laugh. "There are people I miss."

The Warden gave a knowing smile, holding Hawke's arm at an odd angle to wind the bandage around her wound. "Someone you love?" she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

Hawke grinned. "Is it that obvious?"

"There aren't many things that can make someone laugh and cry at the same time," Neria deftly knotted the bandage, and patted her shoulder. "You're all done."

They sat in silence for a time. Hawke feeding the fire as Neria cleaned their blades. The night was calm and quiet, not even a breath of the wind that had plagued them yesterday stirred the trees above.

"Is there someone waiting for you?" Hawke asked, eventually, trying to sound casual. "Back at Skyhold I mean."

Neria's rag-clasped hand stopped halfway up her blade. For a long time she simply stared into the darkness, her fire-lit form tense as a strung bow. Hawke was about to change the subject when the woman muttered softy. "I don't know."

"Oh, so it's like that then," Hawke muttered, nudging the elf with her elbow. "Complicated."

"When is it not?" Neria returned to polishing her blade, the soft slink of the cotton against steel the only sound. "We are two...very different people. If I were to let myself..." she broke off, shaking her head. "It's foolish."

"We don't get to choose who we love," Hawke brushed her shoulder against the Warden's. "I told Isabela that once..."

"Isabela?" Neria put her sword down. "Captain of the Siren's Call? Voluptuous brunette, with a penchant for gold jewellery and ridiculous boots?"

Hawke's smile was true and full as she clutched the Warden's arm. "You know her!"

"I only met her once, but she was...unforgettable," Neria smiled. "She tried to seduce Alistair and I." Her smile dropped suddenly but Hawke was too buoyed by the thought of her pirate queen to pay much mind.

"That sounds just like her," Hawke laughed, squeezing the mage even tighter. "I can't believe it! She never mentioned meeting you!"

It was then she noticed the woman's solemn face, the way she stared into her lap without seeing, her tense fingers wrapped around the hilt of her longsword.

"Not a good memory?" Hawke asked, leaning a little closer to the mage.

"It used to be," she sighed and gave a weary smile. "But look at me, being morose. How did you meet her?"

Hawke spoke. It was a balm, to conjure up those memories. To think of her wicked smile, the swagger of her walk, her irreverent, head-first, balls out, approach that had proved to be such a consolation to the darker periods of Hawke's life.

It was the first time she heard the Warden laugh.

It was late by the time Hawke had recounted her and Isabela's many adventures but she didn't feel tired. They sat side by side, knees touching.  Neria stirred the embers of their fire with a stick until it too caught a light and she abandoned it to the flames.

"So..." Hawke said, wondering if her next question would refreeze the ice between them. "Will you tell me about Alistair?"

Neria didn't move for what seemed an age. Her face was stark against the firelight. She'd drawn her long hair into a knot earlier in the night and now it served to display her vulnerability, the sudden tension in the tendons of her neck, the way her cheeks became sharp contours as she frowned,  the tightness of her jaw line as she gritted her teeth. Hawke watched her closely, desperate for a sign that she hadn't overplayed her hand. Neria's mouth parted, her tongue darted across her lower lip. She whipped her head around, staring into the night as though scared someone was near. Hawke strained to hear but the woods were still. When the Warden looked back to the fire her face was full of sorrow.

"I thought he was an oaf when I first met him," she said, quietly. Hawke mimicked her perfect stillness, like she might were she tracking a skittish doe. "He was arguing with a mage about some order from the Revered Mother. He'd been trained as a Templar. I thought it was some practical joke of the Maker's that my first taste of freedom would be hindered by a mage hunter..." she broke off, stared into the night again. "Needless to say the slaughter of our entire order and realisation that we were the only two Wardens alive in Ferelden that could deal with an encroaching blight somewhat dulled our dislike of one another. I remember..." she pursed her lips as though not wanting to, "I remember our first night in the Wilds alone.  I woke to this wretched sound, I thought some animal was snuffling around our camp. I'd taken a blade from a dead soldier that day, no more than a cooking knife really but I was so terrified that I couldn't summon a spell. I took that blade and crept from my tent, my heart going wild, thinking I'd have to kill some beast on my own. I crept from my tent, around the fire, keeping my back to it like Duncan had taught me, so as not to ruin my night eyes, all the while my ears prickled for the pad of feet coming closer. I followed the sound, knife held out in front of me, not that I had any clue what I was to do with it...and then...."

She stopped, her face crumpling in with pain.

Hawke tried to be patient but she'd hung onto every word. "And then?" she asked.

"I saw him," she said, simply, and for the first time Hawke noticed her hands gripping her knees, a whiten tension playing across them. "He was huddled against a tree, knee's drawn up to himself, his sword planted  into the ground in front of him. And he was crying, great heaving sobs that wracked his entire body. I stood for a while, shocked, feeling an intruder on his grief. I thought I should turn back to camp before he saw me, thinking he'd be ashamed and angry at my finding him. And as I backed away, a twig snapped under my foot.

Afterwards. For the longest time, I wandered what would of become of us if that twig hadn't snapped. If I hadn't given myself away, almost carelessly. Or even if I had, if he hadn't noticed, hadn't looked up and seen me. If that twig had stayed unbroken and if I'd crept back to camp...Would there have been another time? Or would the dislike have festered between us? Taken root in the cracks?"

She went silent and Hawke sensed that she shouldn't interrupt. Instead she watched the Warden; deep in her own memories now, she seemed to relax; her eyes were misted and distant, her shoulders slumped and still, her mouth a thin, grim line. And then she spoke.

"But it did snap. And he did look up. And there was so much pain in his eyes," she shook her head, took a deep breath. "I'd never seen such...anguish...so open on a person's face. I knew...I knew that he needed me, _really_ needed me. It was the first time anyone had, and not because I was a great mage, or a great fighter but because I was...a human."

"What do you mean?" Hawke asked gently.

"He needed empathy, compassion. A templar. Someone trained to kill the likes of me without a second thought. And it made me realise that we're all the same, underneath this armour that we wear, underneath the allegiances we hold and the sides we take, we all have pain and grief. Our suffering is what ties us together."

She suddenly gripped her longsword, deftly sliding it back into its sheath with a hiss. The fire had burnt low as she spoke and Hawke shuddered, chilled by the her words as much as the night air. She didn't much like the thought of some web of suffering binding all humanity together. There were people in this world who didn't deserve such compassion. She wanted to tell the Warden this but she couldn't find the words.

"You should get some sleep," she broke Hawke from her thoughts. "Tomorrow will be a long day."


	67. Banter and Brawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support, I'm incredibly grateful to each and every one of you, even if I don't have the time to thank you all personally! Hope you continue to enjoy!

**Part III: The Crow**

* * *

Zevran had often thought the average soldier or guardsmen no brighter than a stray city mutt. Easily bribed, barks much worse than their bites, they were, when rigorously trained, capable of following orders but little else.

The Inquisition soldiers were an entirely different species. They were more like bees, he decided. Diligent in their work, ceaseless in their duty, they seemed to have some sort of hive mind, a secret network of communication that utterly eluded Zevran. They woke him with their clattering first thing every morning. They were never a foot behind despite his many and varied attempts to shake them off. And of course they all buzzed around their leader, Commander Cullen Rutherford, to whom they were unwaveringly loyal.

He began to very much regret his brash words to the man, however right his conviction had been. And if Zevran hated anything more than regretting his mistakes it was having his options limited, his plans scuppered and his movements watched at every turn.

He'd tried everything to chisel them off his back and for a while it was a fun game. Climbing from his tower bedroom to evade the men at his door, only to find two stationed on the ground beneath his window. Slipping into the winding maze of passageways underneath the fortress only to discover that they knew them as well as he. He tried bribery, befriending and on one memorable occasion seduction, but the soldiers of the Inquisition were affable, but unmovable.

So he changed his tactics.

He put on his most charming smile and his best leather boots and flirted his way through an evening meal with the beautiful Ambassador. And though she stammered and giggled and blushed in the candlelight, she finally lamented that she could do nothing for his predicament. Leliana was just as useless, sending him away before he'd even begun to speak, hissing that he'd brought this on himself.

"For goodness sake!" Dorian groaned, after listening to him loudly bemoaning the situation for the hundredth time. "Swallow your pride and go apologise to the man. Have done with it. He's not unreasonable, it was clumsy of you to anger him."

They sat in the crowded tavern, soldiers, mages and merchants all clustered around tables, gambling and drinking away their woes. Over the din the grumbles of those loosing at cards and dice could be heard the loudest, their anger almost spilling over into violence several times.

The mage had made enough of a recovery to walk halting steps from the infirmary to the bar almost every night and almost every night Zevran joined him, watched closely by his ever present guardians. He'd been in a blithe mood since hearing the news that he would no longer face trail and Zevran suspected that this, and the Herald's unexpected departure three nights ago, had aided his swift recovery.

"It is not pride," he retorted. "I was doing the man a favour..."

"If you truly believe that then you're a bigger fool than I thought," Dorian rolled his eyes. "Do you honestly think that's what you were doing? Giving him a friendly bit of advice? What about the part where you threatened to cut his throat."

At the table next the them the guard visibly bristled. Zevran grimaced. "Please, keep your voice down."

"Any man other than Cullen would have ripped you limb from limb," Dorian whispered. "Void, I'd have probably lit a fire under your boots until your blood boiled. You're lucky that he's taken it so well."

"Neria is..."

"Not some fragile first bloom of spring," Dorian snapped across him, once again earning them a glare from the gruff solider next to them. "She's the bloody Hero of Ferelden, she can look after herself."

"You don't know her like I do," Zevran muttered. "She cares too easily. Gives her affection away to idiots who don't know who they're dealing with..."

"Cullen is not an idiot," Dorian leaned across the table. "Surely you've realised that by now..."

"He's a fanatic," Zevran grumbled, forgetting to keep his voice hushed in his anger. "You weren't there when he was ranting after Kinloch. If you'd heard what he said of mages you wouldn't be so quick to defend him..."

A silence settled over the bar and Zevran felt the prickle of fifty eyes on the back of his neck. A shadow blocked the light of the fire and he glared upwards into the face of the craggy soldier.

"You will stand," the armoured man grunted.

"Corporal Jenkins..." Dorian hobbled to his feet, his tone placating.

The man held up a gauntleted hand to stop the mage. "This has nothing to do with you 'Vint," he turned and pointed at Zevran. "You will stand."

"I fail to see why," Zevran retorted, haughtily reclining in his chair.

"I won't punch a man who's sitting down."

Zevran raised an eyebrow and shrugged."Well, that doesn't give me much of an incentive to stand, does it, corporal?"

"You were bad-mouthing the Commander," he said, loud enough that anyone in the bar didn't know surely did now. "I will not suffer him to be insulted by the likes of you."

"Then you know where the door is," Zevran shrugged, turning back to his drink.

The assassin's mouth had often landed him in situations like this. In his early days his glibness had earned him the cane, in his middling years he fought more tavern brawls than any of his Crow brethren, during the blight he was constantly dodging angry blows from Alistair and half-hearted swipes from the ladies, now he was an attachment to the royal palace people tended to hold their tongues, and their beatings, when his manner became irksome. It was this recent lapse in practice, he told himself afterwards, that allowed Corporal Jenkins to land the blow he did.

He reeled, taking the chair with him as he slammed into the floor. Instinct broke his fall, saw him rolling to his feet, spitting out blood. He had time to swipe his tongue around his mouth before the Corporal was upon him again.

Zevran saw the clumsy strike as though it were underwater. He had time to glance down at the soldier's feet, time to realise that the punch was off balance, time to snap his hand out before the blow turned inwards. He grabbed the wrist and in a delicate manoeuvre used the stronger man's weight against him. He span like a dancer, twisting the corporal's arm to the small of his back as he crashed, face first, onto the table.

And then all hell broke loose.


	68. The Power to Forget And The Promise to Return

**Part III: The Lion, The Warden**

_One thing of it we borrow_

_And promise to return --_

_The Booty and the Sorrow_

_Its Sweetness to have known --_

_One thing of it we covet --_

_The power to forget --_

_The Anguish of the Avarice_

_Defrays the Dross of it --_

_(Emily Dickinson, One thing of it we borrow)_

* * *

The noise resounded across the walls of the courtyard. The slam of booted feet against the cobblestones. A woman's shrill scream. Excited yelps and grunted moans. He was on his feet in seconds, sword flashing in front of him, images from Haven, from Kirkwall, from Kinlock, all forcing his heart into his throat.

He tore open the door to his office. Torches flickered beneath him, throwing the scene into a sharp dance of light and dark. He stopped, trying to ignore the desperate need to carry on, to fling himself into the fight. _A good Commander must first assess the enemy._

His eyes took a time to adjust from the bright glare from his candlelit office. He squinted into the patches of light, expecting to see red Templars, Venatori, some new foul breed of follower Corypheus had summoned. Instead the light of the tavern door opening drew his eyes, and the fleeting glimpse of two figures falling into the darkness told him everything he needed to know.

He took a deep breath, of relief, of anger, and sheathed his weapon.

It took two hours, several heated threats, a thousand placating gestures and both him and Leliana to calm the situation down. Getting to the bottom of what happened was another matter entirely. His men were surprisingly tight lipped, making him suspicious of their involvement. Krem and the other Chargers had experienced what they termed a moment of blindness and what he called selective memory. The innkeep's two front teeth had been knocked out and he was in no position to speak, drooling and gargling in the infirmary. Sera was drunk as a sot and making little sense between her snorted giggles. Cole was nowhere to be found.

Cullen's voice was hoarse from shouting, his gloved hand aching from being wrapped around the hilt of his sword and dawn was smudging the sky above when Cassandra, dishevelled and scowling, marched towards him. Her hands were positioned at odd angles, firmly grasping the collars of two men at different heights. Her stride was fierce.

"These are your culprits," she grunted, throwing them to the snow at his feet. "Dorian told me everything."

Cullen was shocked to find the level-headed Corporal staring up at him, the left side of his face a mess of swollen bruises, his right side wincing as though expecting further pain. No wonder the men had been tight lipped. Jenkins was popular among the Inquisition soldiers for his easy humour in even the most difficult times.

"Commander," he muttered, as best he could through his puffy wounds, before his gaze fell to the snow.

The other man was not so humble.

Despite the long gash across his cheek, despite the blood smeared and drying across his face, despite the darkness of a blooming black eye, the elf still smirked up at him. "Commander," he mimicked.

"Dorian seems to think this one started it," Cassandra looked down at the sheepish Corporal. "And that this one," she scuffed a boot towards the elf, showering him with snow but stopping just shy of kicking him, "defended himself."

"That's not how it...," Jenkins began but was cut off by Cullen's glare.

"Speak out of turn again Corporal and I'll dock your rum ration for a week," Cullen said. "Go on, Seeker."

"From Dorian's account this was the excuse several others had been waiting for," Cassandra shook her head. "Apparently some of the Orlesian merchants were cheating at cards. The soldier's they were scamming took their justice in cracked skulls."

Cullen frowned and was about to ask more, when a commotion from the gates drew everybody's eye. People were shouting from the wall, gesturing for those below to open the portcullis. The great heaving of the chain screeched across every torchlit conversation. When the grinding ceased a silence had settled over the once bustling courtyard.

Three figures lumbered from the shadow of the gateway as the chain began rattling in descent. One was being propped up by the other two but once in the shadow of the walls they slowly lowered him into the snow. When one of the figures stepped back, crouched over, gasping back her breath, a bolt of recognition hit Cullen and his insides squirmed.

* * *

 

They found the scout, unhorsed, wounded, crawling up the mountain, a sludge of blood-stained snow in his wake. He was lifeless and frozen face down in the snow, the green of his Inquisition armour stained and stiffened with blood. Neria thought him dead before they flipped him over. Snowflakes stuck to his hair and brows, his lips blue with the frost. She'd fumbled at his collar and been surprised by the slow flitting beat under her fingertips.

She was no healer, but she warmed him with her magic until his eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was blank, unseeing, and he muttered words she couldn't catch. By the smell of his wound she figured he'd been lying here for days, long enough for blackness to fester around the deep gash. She doubted he'd be able to keep the leg if they didn't get him back soon.

So they carried him. Hawke protesting at her altruism. She'd grown surly since the walls of the fortress had come into sight. Neria couldn't begin to guess at why. She welcomed the end of their journey, the return to the security of the fortress, of regular meals and of a bed to fall into.

They stumbled forwards, hobbled by the weight of the barely conscious man, their weapons, packs and armour. Each step was treacherous in the rocky, frozen incline, and the grey dawn did little to guide their steps. Neria was coated in a sheen of sweat, her breath coming sharp and steaming the air before her lips, every part of her aching, when the walls of the fortress finally loomed above them.

Hawke called up to the guards on watch but it seemed an age before they opened the gate. By the time they were under the safety of the arch Hawke was turning the air blue with her curses. Her fury hissing and spitting off the rock around them.

Neria didn't have the strength to placate her. She'd insisted that they march through the night and now she was feeling the error of her ways in every cut and bruise. As soon as they were in the courtyard she lowered the man to the ground with all the care her complaining muscles could muster, flung her pack off her back with a grunt of joy, and resisted the urge to fall face first into the cooling snow.

When she finally caught her breath and looked around she was glad to have stifled the temptation. Hundreds of eyes were watching her.

"Bit of a sombre welcome party," Hawke grunted beside her.

She was right. A knot of people stood in the courtyard, soldier's clutching pikes eyeing them warily, injured men, some bruised and beaten, some unconscious and prone, cluttered the outside of the infirmary, other's stood heads hung low and eyes red with over-indulgence, their hands bound loosely in front of them. Neria scanned the crowd looking for a familiar face as a healer scuttled over and knelt next to the Scout.

And then she saw him. Over the heads of the crowd, his face dimly lit by dawn's burgeoning light, his face grave and still, but she could feel his eyes upon her. Her heart leapt as she held his gaze, but he did not smile, did not raise a hand in welcome, he simply stared. And her heart quickly sank.

Neria turned away.

"What happened here?" Hawke asked of the healer, rolling her shoulders back with a pained expression.

"Bar fight," the woman muttered. "We're going to have to get him inside. How long was he out there?"

"I dunno," Hawke said, indifferently. "Isn't that your job?"

The healer threw her a scathing look. "Are you going to help or are you going to stand around being witty?"

"I've dragged him up a bloody mountain, woman," Hawke groaned. "Find someone else to take the last ten steps. Hey you," she shouted to a passing soldier, beckoning him over. "Kindly help the healer."

The solider seemed torn for a second, looking between his duty and the scowling woman tapping her foot in irritation.

"Neria," whispered a voice very close to her ear. She jumped, having heard no-one approach over the din of people resuming their work.

Leliana's touch was warm as she clasped both of Neria's arms. Her face was her usual mask of calm but for the slight quiver in the line of her lips that betrayed her relief. Had the bard not been gripping her so tightly Neria would have flung her arms around her. The dust of the past was settling now but some memories, some fond memories, some good memories, memories long forgot had risen as she'd weaved her tale to Hawke.

"I missed you, sister," she muttered, low enough that no-one could hear. "I am sorry for our ugly parting."

Leliana said nothing. She didn't need to. Her hands squeezed and her eyes gleamed for a second.

"I must see the Herald," Neria whispered. "I have important news."

Leliana worked down a swallow, but still when she spoke her voice was rough. "He's not here. Moved out to the Western Approach."

"You're fucking joking me!" Hawke hissed from where she'd been watching their reunion intently. "He was supposed to bloody wait."

"He felt he could no longer," Leliana shrugged. "I suggest you get some rest and follow him at dawn tomorrow."

A torrent of vile words in several different languages flung themselves from Hawke's mouth, ending with a particularly wicked slur about the Herald's mother, before she stormed off into the crowd of people who parted or were gruffly pushed aside.

"Charming," Leliana muttered, but a small grin was playing around her lips. "I see why the Inquisitor dislikes her so."

"I hope the Western Approach is big enough for the both of them," Neria smiled back. "If the Herald is not here then we must convene a council..."

"First," Leliana said. "There is a matter we must attend."

"Good point, I'm starving," Neria sighed.

"It is a little more...complicated than that."


	69. She Burns

**Part III: The Templar, The Crow**

_"Her eyes and words are so icy_   
_Oh but she burns_   
_Like rum on the fire_   
_Hot and fast and angry_   
_As she can be_   
_I walk my days on a wire."_

_(Hozier, Cherry Wine)_

* * *

_I should stop staring, I should concentrate._ But his eyes inevitably strayed from Cassandra, his ears pounding with blood over the words she spoke. She'd seen him, but she wasn't looking his way now, she was smiling and laughing with Leliana, and though she looked tired and drawn as she hefted her pack over her shoulder, he doubted any sight had made him happier in his life. _She was safe_ _and she was here._ A knot of worry unravelled itself inside him. Only to tighten again when he remembered  his promise to the Inquisitor.

_There will be no more distractions._

"Commander?" Cassandra's tone suggested she'd been trying to get his attention for a while. He tore his eyes away.

"Sorry Seeker, what were you saying?" he grunted.

"What punishment do you wish to give to these lowlifes..." she gave her customary scowl to the men still kneeling in the snow.

"Punishment?" the elf was still smirking. "I don't think that would be appropriate, my dear. I have..what's the phrase...diplomatic immunity."

Cassandra put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a look she usually reserved for particularly disgusting insects. "You're not an ambassador. You're a spy."

"Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful when you're angry?" the elf countered. "There's a real sparkle to your eyes and those cheekbones..." The elf stopped suddenly. No longer looking at the Seeker but to her left. His smirk vanished. The fight seemed to go out of him.

Neria stood, staring at the elf, her mouth slightly open, paler than usual under the smears of dirt and blood. Cullen felt a pang of jealousy, followed by the sharper stab of shame.

"My dear Warden," the elf whispered,  as reverently as his flippant nature would allow. He tried to struggle to his feet but Cassandra put a heavy hand on his shoulder driving him back to his knees.

"What are you doing here?" There was a note of alarm in Neria's voice and any jealousy he'd felt quickly evaporated. _She's not happy to see him._

"Looking for you, of course!" a true grin broke across his face that looked nothing like his usual smirk. "I err..." he glanced up at Cassandra. "I find myself in a little difficulty."

"They were fighting," the Seeker said, indicating the hunched over form of the Coporal.

The Corporal looked up, slowly, like a bruised and beaten tortoise coming out of its shell. "Jenkins!" Neria exclaimed.

"My lady Hero," he muttered, looking anywhere but her. "I'm glad you're safely returned."

Her alarm turned quickly to ire as she glared at the elf. "What in Thedas did you do?"

Cullen didn't bother to hide his smile as the elf's face fell. _Boots on the other foot now._

"He hit me!" the elf said, peevishly.

"You were badmouthing the Commander," the Corporal retorted. "I was defending his honour."

"Corporal," Cullen growled a warning. "For speaking out of turn I dock your rum ration for a fortnight. For brawling with a guest of the Inquisition I'll have seventy hours of your free time to be used as I see fit. Now," he inclined his head to the infirmary. "Go and scrub the blood off your face. I want you back here in an hour, ready for drills."

Jenkins lurched to his feet, snapping into a smart salute. "As you wish, Commander."

"What about this one?" Cassandra sneered down at the elf but the assassin's attention was all for the Warden. "We could send him back to his King..."

"What?" Neria hissed, her head flicking from the Seeker to the elf. "What do you mean? What King?"

The elf winced. "Now my dear, do not get angry with me..."

"You..." she said, disbelief evident in her tone. "You still work for Alistair?"

"Well..."

" _He_ sent you..." she muttered. "He sent you after me...." there was no room for question.

"Now, my dear," he said, his tone light and placating. "Do not blame the messenger."

"Enough," Leliana said, cutting psychically and verbally over the warden. "We have important matters to discuss with you, Commander. Let us leave Zevran's punishment for another time."

"As you wish," he said, meeting Neria's eye for the first time as he gestured up the steps to the keep.

Leliana stalked ahead, taking the stairs two at a time saying something about waking the Ambassador that Cullen didn't really hear.

And then they were alone.

She was a ball of fury as she walked beside him. He fought for something to say, something consoling and calming but nothing would come. He snuck glances at her, her usually soft brow was lined with worry, pulled low over narrowed eyes. _Say something...say anything. Tell her you missed her..._

"Commander," a recruit jogged up the stairs to meet him, clipboard in hand. "I have the report on tonight's incident..."

"On my desk," he grunted irritably, waving him away.

"Of course," the recruit bobbed his head and disappeared into the masses below.

When he turned back to his climb Neria was watching him from the step above. His vital organs did their customary somersault as she managed a small grin. "I'm sorry, I must be foul company."

"Your company could never be foul, my lady," he said, the fluttering feeling of a thousand birds taking flight filling him as her smile broke across her face. "I have missed it."

"And I yours," she said. "We should..." she broke off and shook her head. "We shouldn't keep them waiting."

* * *

He absentmindedly brushed the snow from his damp knees, his eyes following every movement of his Warden as she ascended the stairs to the keep. She didn't look back, not a single glance over her shoulder for her poor, beleaguered assassin, several years starved of her company. He grimaced, remembering the thinly veiled contempt in her eyes, the way they flashed like emeralds in the sun before they'd widened in surprise and then narrowed in disgust.

She was thinner than he remembered. The hollows of her cheekbones stark against her pale skin. Her auburn hair, though a tangled mess, showed no hint of grey but for the snowflakes settled there. She had long ago discarded the heavy plate she'd worn for most of the Blight. She walked differently, almost lithely, in boiled leathers of a huntsman, no fancy filigree or awkward straps to snag on errant branches.

She stopped halfway up the stairs and for a moment he thought she'd glance back, throw him a guilty look of regret or sorrow. He would instantly forgive her the sharp words, her less than warm welcome. But instead she turned to the Templar at her side, a bashful smile on her lips that he had seen a thousand times though never once for him.

He watched them. Heads bowed slightly towards each other, exchanging smiles and no doubt sweet words. It made him tut and sigh.

He would probably have to kill this one.

It was only when they'd disappeared from sight, the crowd of the fortress swarming between them, that Zevran realised he was not being watched.

He grinned.

In the chaos of the evening and the coming of the Warden they'd forgotten all about him. For the first time in three days Zevran relaxed, took a deep breath and then slipped into the crowd.

Had someone been following they'd have thought little of him slowly making his way to the infirmary. He'd spent nights there often enough, and the scar down his cheek would have been reason enough to seek the aid of the healers. The hustle and bustle at the make-shift entranceway made it easier to steal down the corridors, the healers had been run ragged all night, setting broken limbs and sewing split heads, they paid no mind at all to the elf strolling purposefully past, looking every inch like he'd a right to be there.

Had someone been following him, and he was careful to make sure that they were not, they would probably have become suspicious as he loitered in the corridor, peering over the heads of by-passing patients and healers alike, making a play of waiting for someone. Had that follower been exceptionally well trained they may have noticed his hands were not at his side but behind his back and that despite the elf's outward calm, his fingers moved frantically.

Had they been most observant they may have seen the glint of a lock pick disappearing up his sleeve and if they'd blinked at the wrong time they'd have missed him, sliding into the previously locked room like a shadow.  

The air was dry in the cramped closet, thick with the cloying scent of herbs and spices, potions and poultices. He took deep breaths, trying to still the frantic knocking of his heart as he waited for his eyes to acclimatise to the gloom. If he was caught here there would be little anyone could do, his diplomatic immunity would not extend to stealing supplies from the Inquisition. Leliana had been most explicit. In this he was alone. 

By the time he could read the labels on the myriad of bottles and pouches his heart had somewhat stilled, though he was coated in a thin sheen of anxious sweat. The stock room was well tended and meticulous, each shelf stocked high and alphabetically labelled. He gave silent thanks for the healer's organisation and set to work.

Twice he heard boots coming towards him through the thin walls and twice he stilled, willing himself to be silent, not even daring to breathe. Twice boots and voices went by, oblivious to the assassin-turned-thief lingering in the store room.

By the time he'd secreted the five bottles and two pouches about his person, the room was hot with his sweat. He pressed his ear to the door and on hearing nothing but his own heartbeat pounding through the wood, he whipped it open. 

The man standing outside had clearly been there a while. His arms were crossed over his mage's robes and his sharp, angular face was made for the type of glower he threw at Zevran.

_Oh dear._

"What in the void are you doing in my store room?"


End file.
